


did we meet in some dim yesterday?

by tomorrowsrain



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Season/Series 02, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stiles Stilinski is Thomas (Maze Runner)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5017438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowsrain/pseuds/tomorrowsrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles returns to Beacon Hills after five years trapped in the clutches of a madwoman and tries to pick up the pieces of a life he doesn't remember. And then there's the freaky abilities he apparently got from being experimented on. Fantastic. </p><p>At least Newt's along for the ride. That makes the whole goddamn mess a little easier to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't know how this happened, really. But, yeah. First time in either fandom, so bear with me. I'll post any additional warnings before the chapters, as this will probably deal with some heavy shit. 
> 
> For reference, this is set around season two of Teen Wolf, but Stiles naturally hasn't been around for anything that went down. There will also be a lot of change regarding Thomas's time in the maze, just to warn you. (I also have not read any of the Maze Runner books, so probably won't be drawing from those too much, though there are a few details I'm using that were not included in the films.) 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. 
> 
> Enjoy. :) 
> 
> \- C

They tell him his name isn’t Thomas, but something Stilinski. They tell him he’s from California and he has a father that’s been looking for him and a home to return to. All he can focus on is how cold the metal table is against his skin and where are the others? He asks, repeatedly, but none of the doctors seem inclined to give him an answer.

They check his blood pressure, temperature, breathing, and a dozen other things he doesn’t understand. Then they decide to bring out the needles and he goes postal.

Three overturned tables and lots of damaged expensive equipment later and they’ve strapped him into the chair.

Bastards.

He tugs at the restraints, frantic, because they won’t _answer_ him and where are the others and Chuck is _dead_ and why won’t anyone just tell him _what the hell is going on?_

He’s pretty sure he screams an approximation of this at the doctors; they respond by jabbing a needle in his neck.

 _Fucking_ bastards.

He gasps as he feels the sedative hit him like a freight train and before he can curse them to hell and back like he wants, everything goes black.

 _ _

He wakes up strapped to a bed so thoroughly that all he can move is his head. Which feels like someone took a hammer to it and then packed it full of fuzz. Marvellous.

He tells himself to calm the hell down and after a few deep, shaking breaths he twists to take in his surroundings.

White room, white walls, lots of beeping machines … hospital? Is that right?

There’s still no sign of the others and he tries not to panic over that. Last he remembers, they were still alive—being dragged away by the soldiers while he cried over Chuck’s body. But who’s taken them now? Are they still with WCKD? Or some new enemy?

Well, one way to find out.

He licks his lips—ready to start yelling again—but the door clicks open before he can get any words out. A woman enters, dressed in a doctor’s lab coat with glasses perched on her nose and her dark hair piled on her head.

She smiles at him. He distrusts her immediately.

“Good to see you’re awake,” she says and her voice sounds like Newt’s—the same crisp accent.

“Because you knocked me out,” he feels the need to point out. He’s not going to fall for her pleasant act. Nope.

“Yes, we are sorry about that.” She remains nonplussed as she sinks gracefully into the chair by his bed, perching a clipboard on her knee. “But it was an unfortunate necessity. Now that you seem to have calmed down a bit we can talk, Stiles.”

What?

“What the _hell_ is a _Stiles?”_

She quirks a smile at him and _finally_ decides to grace him with an answer. “Your name. Well, in a way. Your last time is Stilinski and I’m afraid we had no idea how to pronounce your first name but your father mentioned that you used to call yourself Stiles.”

_What?_

He blinks, struggling to process all of that because, “My name is Thomas.”

The doctor shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid not. You’re Stiles Stilinski, born 8th of April 1998 in Beacon Hills, California. Mother deceased; father, John Stilinski. Abducted at age eleven and…”

“ _Stop,”_ he snaps, head spinning.

The doctor at least looks contrite but he tunes out her stammered apology as he tries to sort out all the information she just hurled at him. He vaguely remembers the other doctors saying something Stilinski and family and California but he wasn’t exactly paying attention because they were _poking him with needles._

“Where are the others?” He asks, deciding he can’t deal with being Stiles Stilinski from Beacon Hills until he knows everyone is safe.

“They’re fine,” the doctor assures him. He never got a name, so for now he’s dubbing her Glasses. “Some minor wounds and malnutrition but we’ll get all of you healthy again.”

“I want to see them.”

He already knows what the answer is going be before she shakes her head. “That isn’t possible at the moment, I’m afraid. We need to debrief all of your separately and finish our initial medical evaluations.”

A quick glance around the room reveals nothing he can use as a weapon. Fine. He can be patient. And he still has an ace up his sleeve he seriously doubts they know about.

Glasses keeps talking. “So if you’re willing to cooperate now, Stiles, I can have the nurse remove the restraints and we can talk. Then I’ll see about you visiting the others.”

Getting untied is definitely a step in the right direction so he nods. Glasses presses a button on her belt and a few seconds later the nurse enters to deftly undo all of the various straps holding him down. She’s also not carrying anything useful. Damn.

“I’m sure you have plenty of questions,” Glasses continues as he sits up, rubbing his wrists. His arms are dotted with bandages, he realises, and a touch to his ribs reveals more wrapped around his torso.

“A few,” he says with as much biting sarcasm as he can muster—which is, sadly, not much. It’s too hard to focus.

Still, he’s not going to let her feed him information in a nice little prepared package, so, “Where are we?”

“Northfield Medical Centre in Arizona. We evacuated you here from the desert facility.”

And right, he distantly remembers a helicopter now and soldiers guiding him out into blinding sunlight.

“Desert facility? You mean the maze?”

Glasses frowns and scratches something on her clipboard. He makes a mental note to get a hold of it as soon as possible. “Yes. The facility where you and the others were being held hostage.”

He has other questions, thousands of them—like who decided to put them in the maze and _why_ and what’s going to happen to him now—but they all jumble up in his throat. He wipes a shaking hand across his face, determined not to cry in front of a stranger.

He’s not that weak.

And they already pulled him screaming from Chuck’s body, which is more than enough emotional vulnerability.

“And who the hell are you guys?” He asks when his voice is strong enough not to crack.

Glasses looks flustered. “God, I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Doctor Elizabeth Bennet.”

She pauses, as if waiting for a reaction, he blinks at her and the silence stretches awkwardly until she coughs and gestures around her. “Anyway, like I said, you were evacuated here after the National Guard raided the, um, maze. I am part of a team of doctors assigned to evaluate you and get you patched up before you’re returned to your families.”

Jesus. National Guard? His head feels ready to split open.

Dr Bennet seems to sense how freaking _overwhelmed_ he is and fiddles with her clipboard, giving him a few precious moments to compose himself again. “I am sorry. I know this is a lot to take in.”

Yeah. Understatement of the century right there.

He barks out a sick-sounding laugh and grips the edges of the hospital bed until the bones in his hands start to ache. Dr Bennet adjusts her glasses and keeps talking, God. “You were experimented on, though we don’t know the extent of it yet. It appears that a neurotoxin was used to destroy your memories and—“

“Will I get them back?”

She fiddles with her clipboard again; so … no. “We’re not sure yet. I’m sorry.”

Definitely no.  He swallows around the sinking feeling weighing down his stomach like a ball of lead; the bed creaks beneath his fingers. Nothing to do but press on, though—that hasn’t changed. “Why did they do this to us? _Who_ did this to us?”

“It was an organisation led by Dr Ava Paige, a renowned geneticist. But for what purpose … we have yet to determine that, nor, like I said, do we know the extent of the damage that was done. But we hope that with further tests we’ll have some clearer answers as to what any lasting effects might be.”

Well that’s fucking fantastic. He can feel himself starting to shake and quickly folds his hands into his lap so the stupid tremors don’t rattle the bed. The stranger doesn’t need to see how unhinged he is—that he can feel his already fragile world unravelling and the air is freezing up in his lungs and soon he won’t be able to breathe—

 _“Tommy,”_ a familiar voice whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut and latches on. “ _Calm down.”_

Newt. Thank _God._

_“Where are you?”_

_Hospital room,_ he thinks back, still off-balance. _You? The others? Are you okay?_

“ _Easy.”_ Newt _sounds_ okay—or at least, his mental voice does, but that might not mean anything—Newt is a fucking master at hiding his emotions/pain/worry/discomfort, even mentally, even from those that know him inside and out. _“The others are fine, last I checked. Freaked out and disoriented, but fine. Have you gotten a bloody spiel yet about being abducted and experimented on?”_

His mouth quirks into a smile in spite of his lingering distress because Newt manages to sound sarcastic even over a mental link. _Yeah, just getting it now. Apparently I’m a Stiles Stilinski from California and I have a dad. You?_

There’s a pause and Thomas aches for him, for all of them—he’s supposed to _protect_ them but he can’t fix _this,_ can’t give them back the lives and memories that were stolen or even assure them it will be okay because, God, _he doesn’t know_ and it’s been _so long_ and he can’t fake it anymore.

 _“Stiles Stilinski? That’s a mouthful, Tommy.”_ Newt’s voice cracks on his name and the ache sharpens.

Fuck, he hates this.

 _“Apparently I’m Samuel Wilcox from London, England.”_ Another heavy pause and then, with Newt’s usual measured calm, “ _And I’m an orphan.”_

_Shit, Newt…_

_“It’s fine, Tommy. Better this way, I suppose – no parents I’ve forgotten and—“_

“Stiles?”

His eyes fly open and the connection breaks—Newt’s voice cutting off mid-sentence. Dr Bennet is looking at him, eyes big and worried behind her glasses.

“Sorry,” he says and doesn’t ask that she stop calling him Stiles. “I must’ve zoned out.”

Thankfully she accepts this and starts to prattle on about further tests and rehabilitation and more, probably, but he barely listens—too focused on steadying his hands and keeping air cycling through his lungs.

In and out, in and out, in and out, in and…

 _ _

 More tests, more needles, more lab coats, more fucking _questions_ and he’s ready to go crazy again. The _still_ haven’t let him see any of the others and he’s starting to worry they’re not going to—just silently ship them all off to their families without letting them say goodbye to each other.

At least Newt’s around to keep him updated. Everyone seems to be holding together, from what Newt can tell, and he takes a small measure of comfort in that. He taught them how to keep from breaking and maybe that means they’re going to be okay out there in the great big, half-forgotten world.

His hands keep shaking and he has to remind himself to breathe. He lies awake at night in his too-cold room and runs his fingers over Chuck’s wooden carving, wondering if somewhere in the hospital his parents are mourning their lost son. He wants to apologise to them, for failing Chuck, for letting him _die,_ but he doesn’t think he has the strength.

The fucking doctors probably wouldn’t let him, anyway.

So he keeps the carving close and cries when the lights are out and no one can see. Newt whispers in the back of his mind, _“It’ll be okay, Tommy,”_ and he tries to believe because it’s clear that Newt doesn’t.

 _ _

They ask him what he can remember ( _nothing);_ they ask him what he knows about the people who built the maze _(nothing);_ they ask him what happened to the boys that weren’t rescued _(dead);_ they ask him about what it was like in the maze _(hell)._

They _don’t_ ask how the others died and he’s grateful for that. He can keep the blood on his hands hidden a little longer.

He wonders when he became such a _fucking coward._ They don’t ask him that, either—probably because they’re too busy praising him for surviving to ask about the cost.

_ _

So something’s been altered in his DNA, apparently. At least, that’s the conclusion the doctors have reached after three weeks of “extensive tests.” AKA poking him with needles and taking _way_ more of his blood and tissue than they needed to.

He has no idea what that means, but it’s probably an explanation for all of the shit he can do that he has yet to mention to the Lab Coat Brigade (LCB for short, which got Newt to laugh; score). From the lack of freaking out (and Newt’s nightly reports), none of the others have mentioned it, either.

He’s not about to trust these people and he’s pretty sure that if he suddenly starts levitating objects in the room and blasting people with energy condensed from the air around him, they’d lock him up and make him a lab rat for the rest of his life. Which, no. Five years is _way_ more than enough.

So he keeps his mouth shut and lets the LCB puzzle over the test results and the fact that nothing seems to be wrong with any of them even when shit obviously _is._ But Ava Paige rather inconveniently blew her own head off (good riddance) so they’re just going to have to muddle along without any real answers.

Pity.

_ _

Physical tests _suck._ If he has to run on a treadmill one more time he’s going to _kill_ something—violently and messily.

Probably the mousy LCB member who keeps adjusting the speed and incline higher.

Dick.

_Are they making you run?_

Newt doesn’t answer for a few minutes and _giant dick_ pushes the speed up to eight. He’s sprinting now and honestly, fuck this. It’s been almost a month and he’s _sick of it._ All of it.

He also misses the others like _hell._

_“Yes. But not too much. I played the sympathy card with my leg and haven’t been near a treadmill since. Minho hasn’t been so lucky, though.”_

Newt sounds tired, _drained,_ and yeah, he’s done. He pulls the wires off his chest and slides off the treadmill. Giant Dick looks nervous, good, and he makes sure to loom to his full height—a nice three inches on the pathetic doctor.

“I want to see Newt.” He figures he might as well start small and work up to “everyone” from there.

Giant Dick shakes his head. Fine. He has a great answer for that and it’s slamming GD into the wall with a nice, choking grip on the front of his stupid coat.

“I want to see Newt. _Now.”_ He glances around—no weapons, shit. Plan B, then: put arm across GD’s throat with enough pressure to cut off his air and watch him turn a nice shade of red. “Or I’ll choke you to death right here.”

GD wheezes and for a moment it looks like he might try to hold out, but then he nods in defeat.

 _“Tommy?”_ And now Newt sounds close to alarm. _“What the bloody hell are you doing?”_

_Negotiating._

_“Tommy, don’t. They have cameras; you’ll never make it…”_

He’s about to tell Newt to shut up when an alarm starts blaring. _Shit._ GD is looking as smug as possible with limited air and he knocks the idiot unconscious just out of spite. He could make a run for it, but he’s not about to leave the others behind so there’s really nothing left to do but put his hands on his head and let the LCB response team jab him with a sedative.

Blackness rushes in.

_ _

“Tommy, wake up.” It takes him far too long to realise Newt’s voice is coming from above him, rather than inside his head.

He blinks his eyes open, trying to clear the cobwebs left by the drugs, and finds a very worried Newt frowning down at him. Really, no one frowns better than Newt – his eyebrows go all intense and he just looks scary as hell. It’s probably why he ended up in charge so often.

Thomas is too glad to see him to be scared, though, and as soon as Newt finishing unbuckling the last strap, he sits up and pulls Newt into a tight hug. Newt grunts, but then he’s hugging back just as hard and for the first time in weeks Thomas feels like he can breathe properly.

When they finally part, Newt perches on the end of his bed. He’s dressed in the same loose hospital clothes and they practically drown him. There’s a cut on his face that hasn’t healed yet and a few bandages visible around his shoulder but his eyes are as sharp as ever and his usual poise is visible in the set of his shoulders.

Fuck, it’s good to see him.

“You have to stop pulling stupid stunts, Tommy,” he says, still frowning.

Thomas shrugs, because he feels like he’s going crazy and okay, yes, assaulting the medical staff wasn’t his most thought-out plan, but _he’s going crazy._ Newt knows all of that already, though, so there’s point in spelling it out.

“How did you get in here?” He asks instead and watches Newt let the matter go with a faint sigh of frustration.

“I have my own tricks.”

And shit, he didn’t. “Newt…”

Newt coughs and waves his hand. “It’s fine.”

Of course he did, the idiot. “No it isn’t. You’re not supposed to try that anymore, remember? We’ve had this talk. I _know_ we have. More than once.”

“Then stop making me worry,” Newt snaps and in the dim light, Thomas can see flecks of blood on the back of his hand after he wipes his mouth. “And it wasn’t bad. Just a little nosebleed and some coughing—nothing I can’t handle.”

 _We’ve had worse,_ trails in the wake of his words and yeah, they have. Way, way worse. It’s too easy to remember the blood pouring from Newt’s nose as he struggled to hold the feral new arrival in place with just his mind so Chuck could get away.

He coughed for days after that and Thomas pretended he didn’t see the blood that stained his fingers.

“Don’t try it again,” he insists because he can’t lose any more of them. He _can’t._

Newt frowns at him again, but doesn’t protest. “I don’t think they’re trying to hurt us, Tommy. You shouldn’t attack them.”

Right, this again. Great.

“How do you know that? They could be WCKD? What if this is just another one of their games?”

Because he can’t stop wondering – it sits in the back of his mind, this little voice that constantly whispers _don’t trust anyone you’re trapped don’t trust them what if they’re lying don’t trust them…_

Newt shrugs. “I don’t sense any deceit from them. They don’t know how to handle us, but who would? We’re a bunch of traumatised, amnesiac teenagers with messed up genes and brains–I doubt there’s a manual for that.”

“Yeah, no shit.” He picks at a loose thread on his pants. His hands still tremble.

“I think they want to help us, though.” Newt rests his chin on his knee and there are dark circles under his eyes.

“Are the others okay?”

“I would tell you if they weren’t.”

Yeah, he would.

“They’re not gonna let us see each other again, are they?”

“I don’t know.” But there’s a _no_ in his voice and Thomas curls his fingers into a fist against his leg. He wants to run. Being cooped up here _sucks—_ like they’re _still_ stuck in a cage waiting for a higher power to decide their fate.

“You don’t look like a Samuel,” he declares for lack of anything better to say.

Newt cracks a small smile at him. “Well you don’t look like a Stiles.”

“I know. What the hell kind of name is that? Apparently it isn’t even my real one. They couldn’t _pronounce_ my real one. What kind of parent does that to their kid?”

Newt’s voice is dry, “I wouldn’t know.”

Thomas aches for him again. “I wouldn’t, either.” But if the LCB is really telling the truth… “Do you think I actually have a dad waiting out there?”

Newt’s eyes go soft. “Yes. You and most of the others.”

The thought of it makes him panic—stirs up too many emotions to even begin to pick them apart. “But I don’t remember him.”

“Not yet.”

“What if I never remember him?”

Newt reaches out and squeezes his leg. “He’ll still be your dad, Tommy.”

Maybe, but he can’t talk about this anymore. It’s getting hard to breathe again, _shit._ He hates this. How come he could keep it together so well in the maze when all _hell_ was breaking loose on a fucking _daily basis_ but as soon as they’re out, he turns into a pathetic coward?

Seriously, what’s up with that?

“I think it’s normal,” Newt murmurs and Thomas glares at him, even though Newt can’t actually read minds—emotions, yes, thoughts, no. But he still picks up enough to be fucking annoying about it.

Newt holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “See?” And his voice cracks again. “Normal.”

“I can’t fucking _stop,”_ Thomas confesses, because it’s easier to admit it to someone who already knows.

Newt curls his trembling hand into a fist. “Neither can I. I think it’s called PTSD. We all probably have it.”

Yeah, he’s heard the LCB throwing around that term like it’s going out of style, but it doesn’t seem like enough to sum up the enormity of the terror blooming in his chest or the hurricane of emotions lashing against his ribs or the way his mind seems seconds away from falling to pieces every _fucking minute._

“What do you think’s gonna happen to us?”

Getting out of the maze was supposed to be giving them control over their own fate, but it’s clear that was fucking naïve. He really should have known that it’s never that simple.

Newt looks as lost as he does. “I don’t know. I guess … we’ll go back to where we came from.”

Back to parents none of them can remember, back to different countries, back to orphanages.

_Fuck._

He wipes a hand across his face and looks away.

“You still got them out, Tommy,” Newt says with another squeeze to his leg.

“ _We_ got them out. And not all of them.”

“Then we live for the ones we failed.”

It’s something they decided a long time ago—after the first coat of blood on their hands. It’s a small, pathetic undertaking in the face of something as all-consuming as death – two broken boys promising to live for the ones they killed–but it was all they had to give.

It’s all they have left.

“Yeah,” he agrees and tries to smile. It probably comes out looking fucking horrific, but Newt is kind enough not to comment.

“I should get going,” he says, unfolding himself. “They’re going to notice I’m gone soon.”

Thomas wants to beg him to stay but he’s not that pathetic.

At least, not yet.

_ _

Chuck’s carving is a stone in his pocket and the blood is thick on his hands. At night, he can hear it dripping onto the floor.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_ _

The LCB talks about long-term effects of the experimentation, about keeping them all under observation for the next couple years, but, most importantly, about letting them leave.

He doesn’t know if that thrills or terrifies him.

_ _

They still don’t have any answers about why Ava Paige decided to kidnap a bunch of kids, perform horrific experiments on them, and then lock them up in a giant-ass maze in the middle of the desert for years on end.

He’s starting to think that they’re _aren’t_ any answers for that kind of crazy and it’s horrible, realising that all those boys— _Alby, Chuck, Gally—_ died for _nothing—_ that all of it, all that _hell,_ wasn’t for some great cause, just the whims of a madwoman.

He maybe breaks a few things when they tell him that no one’s even going to stand trial because they _all_ committed suicide.

Newt sneaks into his room again that night and they sit on the floor in the dark, breathing.

In and out in and out in and out in and…

_ _

He really wishes they would stop calling him Stiles.

_ _

One month and eight days after being rescued from the maze, the LBC tell him that he’s going to be released into his father’s care.

He spends the next hour pacing circles in his room, plotting. Because Theresa has a mother on the East Coast, Minho is going to back his family in New Zealand ( _a whole fucking world away, apparently),_ Winston has an aunt and uncle waiting for him in India, and Frypan going to live with his mother and father in Colorado ( _wherever the fuck that is),_ but Newt…

There is no way in _hell_ he’s going to let Newt go back to England by himself to be handed over to some orphanage until he turns eighteen.

Fuck no.

He empathically explains this to the LCB, using every reason he can think of, no matter how flimsy—it’s better for them to have someone familiar; it would be easier to observe them if they’re in the same place; this would be easier than getting some foreign orphanage to agree to look after a sixteen-year-old with PTSD, right?

They finally agree to talk to his mysterious father and leave him to basically climb the walls in anxious worry.

But he’s determined—this fight is one he’s going to win.

 


	2. out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY. Life is more than a bit chaotic right now and I'm terrible. 
> 
> Thank you so much the everyone who read, commented, bookmarked and left kudos on the last chapter. I'm sorry that I haven't had a chance to respond to you personally, but each of you warms my heart.
> 
> \- C x

It’s been over a month and they  _ still  _ won’t let you see your son. Every time you ask, you get a spiel about trauma and  _ experiments,  _ dear God, and that all of the kids are in quarantine until they figure out what the hell’s been done to them and what the effects of it will be.

Someone experimented on you  _ son— _ you still haven’t wrapped your head around that. Around any of it, really.

Your son is alive and  _ sixteen  _ and traumatized and  _ doesn’t remember you.  _ You have no idea how to deal with that one—try to imagine meeting a sixteen-year-old Stiles who doesn’t know who you are and come up blank with how to react.

So you wander around the hospital in a daze and drink too much coffee and spend hours talking with the other worried family members who have gathered from all over the world to see their missing children again.

In the beginning, there were more—dozens—and you had to watch as solemn-faced soldiers told them that their children were dead. You spent an hour with one sobbing couple and learned that their son’s name was Chuck and he was only twelve and as you awkwardly patted the father’s back, you tried not show how glad you were that Stiles’ name was on the list of the living instead of the dead.

Some days you still feel like you’re in mourning—worries that this is a dream or the doctors will come and tell you that there’s been a mistake. The boy you’re getting back isn’t going to be the son you lost and you’ve always known that, deep down, but.

God, it’s still hard.

_ Finally— _ one month and eight days after you first arrived in Arizona—the doctors tell you they’re ready to release the kids.

There’s a lot of crying and celebrating among the families, but you clutch your coffee cup and aren’t sure what to feel. You’ve already been given lectures about PTSD and numbers for counseling services in California (and you were a soldier for Christ’s sake—you know a thing or two about trauma) but you’re still terrified that this will be beyond you.

You miss Claudia more strongly than you have in years.

Except the doctors pull you aside and say that your son isn’t willing to leave unless he can bring another one of the rescued kids with him—Samuel Wilcox, a British orphan. You’re given a picture of a skinny blonde kid with a piercing gaze and severe eyebrows.

And your first instinct is to say no,  _ hell no. One  _ messed-up amnesiac is already too much—how on earth would you manage  _ two? _

But.  _ But. _

The kid has nowhere to go, the doctors say—no family to take him in—and Stiles is being stubborn about this— _ which is a relief, really, seeing that your kid hasn’t changed completely— _ and you’re already starting to feel sympathy and guilt setting in.

So, against your better, pragmatic judgment, you ask to meet Samuel Wilcox.

_ _

The doctors set you up in a quiet side room and ten minutes later bring in a kid as skinny and blonde as the picture, but taller than you expected.

You sit across the table from each other in awkward silence for several minutes while you struggle to find something to say. In the end, it’s Samuel Wilcox who cracks first.

“You don’t have to do this, it’s fine,” he says in a crisp British accent. His voice is confident but his hands fidget against the wooden tabletop. “I’ll explain to Tommy why this is a bloody awful plan.”

“Tommy?”  you venture, still hopelessly off-balance.

Samuel Wilcox’s face screws up in a grimace—he looks too young and too old all at once and it’s easy to wonder if Stiles will have these same hard edges masking this same broken vulnerability. “Stiles, sorry. Your son. I’ve always called him Tommy.” He shrugs with clearly practiced casualness. “Old habits.”

Tommy, huh? You try to picture Stiles wearing that name and can’t.

Then again, the last time you saw your son was five years ago—you have no idea what Stiles looks like now.

In the face of this realisation, you take a fortifying swig of awful hospital coffee. Samuel Wilcox watches you with barely disguised wariness. The kid’s playing at confidence, but it’s obvious he’s ready to bolt at any moment—like a cornered cat with its hackles up.

You should say no—this is too big for you—but dammit this kid doesn’t have anyone waiting for him and he looks completely lost, in spite of his calm, and so damn  _ young  _ and—

“It’s okay. You can come stay with us.”

—you’ve always had a bleeding heart.

The kid blinks at you, taken aback, and you try to offer up a reassuring smile.

“Seriously, you don’t have to—“

“It’s fine, kid.” You wave a hand in dismissal because the more you have time to think about the enormity of what you’re committing to, the more you’re going to panic, and now, after five years, it’s time to start being strong again.

Samuel shakes off his shock and offers a tentative smile. “Thank you, Mr Stilinski.”

You reach  across the table to shake the kid’s thin hand. “Call me John.”

_ _

Three hours and twenty-one minutes later, you’re standing in front of your son for the first time in five years.

Your chest seizes up and you’re feeling everything and nothing all at once.

Stiles is almost as tall as you are now and gone are the gangly limbs and the baby fat—this is a young man full of jagged edges and steel. His eyes are darker than you remember, but the sharp spark of intelligence is still there, and his hair has grown out—bangs hanging across his forehead.

You catalogue all these details through tear-soaked eyes and none of them matter—not now, not yet—not even the cautious set of Stiles’ shoulders and the wariness in his too-dark eyes. This is your  _ son, alive,  _ and  _ here  _ and…

You cross the space between you in three quick strides and pull Stiles into your arms.

Stiles is rigid in your embrace and you tell yourself that’s okay, you’ll work on it—you have  _ time  _ now.

“It’s good to see you, kid,” you say when you pull back.

Stiles’ eyes are wet. Hopefully that’s a good sign. “You too.”  He swallows—a wet, choked breath. “I’m sorry I can’t remember.”

You squeeze  his shoulder and smile, chest overflowing with joy and grief.  “It’s okay.”

You have time.

_ _

It’s a long drive back to Beacon Hills, but you’ve never liked flying and you doubt either Stiles or Samuel ( _ who asked to be called, Newt, of all things)  _ would appreciate being cooped up in a metal can for several hours.

Stiles sits in the passenger seat and watches the unfolding scenery with rapt fascination and you remind yourself for the thousandth time that all your  son remembers is a maze and never-ending horror show. It’s going to take some adjusting.

So is seeing scars across Stiles’ skin. He’s rolled up his sleeves in the desert heat and his arms are laced with them—some are thick and deep, like something was trying to kill him, and you’re  grateful for the distraction the road provides. You don’t want to make Stiles uncomfortable by staring.

In the back seat, Newt has folded himself up and closed his eyes. He looks exhausted and you try to limit your worried glances to one every few miles. At least you can be subtle about this and check on the poor kid in the rear-view mirror.

Stiles is decidedly less subtle about it, but he seems satisfied every time he looks and sees that Newt is still asleep.

The silence is suffocating, but you have no idea what to say, which is probably going to be a regular problem.

Comforting words have never been your strong suit.

And on top of that, you doubt this hard-edged boy would want them.

So you drive and Stiles sits, turning over a strange wooden carving in his scarred hands.

_ _

You stop at a department store on the edge of Arizona to buy some clothes because it took you far too long to realise that the boys only had one pair each.

Stiles and Newt stand on the threshold like a pair of lost puppies until you give them a gentle nudge. “Go on, whatever you want. Get a couple shirts, pants, and some shoes. We can pick up the rest when we get home.”

You watch them exchange a glance. Newt squeezes Stiles’ shoulder and ventures into the store—shoulders thrown back like a man marching onto a battlefield. It would be funny if it weren’t so damn sad. Stiles looks around—cataloguing the exits, you realize—and then drifts cautiously towards the shirts.

You trail behind, wanting to give him space but terrified to leave his side. This still feels like a dream.

Halfway down a rack of shirts, Stiles lets out a low, sick laugh. “I have no idea how to do this,” he mumbles, knuckles bleached white over a shirt hanger. He pulls a shirt off the rack—grey with a huge Superman logo embossed on the front.

“What the hell this supposed to mean?” Another shirt, this time with the Bat symbol. “Or this?” He throws the shirt back and runs an agitated hand through his hair.

You bury your heartache.  “Just go with your gut. What do you like?”

Stiles frowns at the rack and it’s strange, watching your son turn his intense, problem-solving focus onto choosing what to wear. Stiles’ hand drifts towards a few plain shirts at the end, greys and light blues, before he curls it into a fist and, jaw clenched, plucks out a bright red shirt. He holds it up and you feel a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth at Stiles’ obvious determination.

“Good choice.”

Stiles gives you a wan, cautious smile and starts looking again. Green and black shirts follow the red one and then a plaid over-shirt. At the end of the rack, Stiles picks up a dark green shirt with the letters “I support single moms” printed proudly across the front. He arches a questioning eyebrow at you and parenting is suddenly easy as you reach for the shirt and put it back on the rack.

“Not that one.”

Now Stiles’ smile is more of a smirk, but he listens, turning to the jackets instead.

_ _

“Okay,” you say when Stiles has  collected five shirts, two jackets, and two pairs of jeans. “Shoes.”

Stiles glances down at his white, hospital-issue trainers and nods. “Definitely.”

He’s sarcastic as hell (which you discovered somewhere in the underwear section) and that should be worrying, but it’s another part of your son that’s still intact so you’re thrilled every time it rears its head.

For now, anyway.

You’re almost to the shoes when Stiles freezes and spins back towards to the clothes section. “We need to check on Newt.”

And he’s off, leaving you to hurry behind him in confusion.

You find Newt by a shirt rack, clutching a white long-sleeved shirt with trembling hands. “This is a lot harder than I expected, Tommy,” he says when Stiles reaches his side.

You hang back on instinct, wanting to give them room and observe at the same time.

“Not white,” Stiles says—about fifty times more assertive than he’s been around you—and pulls the shirt from Newt’s hands. “Fuck white.”

Newt laughs, strangled, and nods. “Yeah. I bloody hate white.”

“We’re done dressing like we’re in the apocalypse,” Stiles continues. “Fuck WCKD. And fuck Ava Paige, right?”

You’re going to need to address the swearing. At some point.

Newt nods again. “Fuck the maze.”

Stiles smiles at him, almost proud, and Newt starts picking out shirts with renewed confidence. Like Stiles, he goes for plain colors—blues, red, browns, and greens. You herd them toward the shoes department eventually and watch as they freeze all over again, deliberating between boots and sneakers.

“You are teenagers, you know,” you comment when Stiles reaches for a pair of boots. “You’re allowed to live a little.”

Stiles blinks at you for a moment before leaving the boots in favor of a pair of white and blue striped trainers. After a moment, Newt follows suit and picks a pair of converse.

You check them out with a chest of full of accomplishment and tentative, growing hope.

_ _

The hotel you locate a few hours after dark is spartan but clean and neither boy complains. You’re ready to order a cot, but they merely step past you and all but collapse on the bed nearest the door—back to back, door and window covered, like freaking  _ soldiers. _

And that’s that.

_ _

Someone is  _ screaming— _ like they’re being murdered.

You jackknife up in bed and fumble for the lamp. As the light floods the room, you see Stiles thrashing on the opposite bed—covers strewn on the floor and tears wet on Stiles’ cheeks while Newt holds him—a contrasting calm to Stiles’ hurricane.

“Shh, Tommy,” Newt murmurs—arm tight around Stiles’ waist and cheek pressed to the top of Stiles’ hair. “You’re safe, you’re safe, calm down.”

Stiles screams again and it echoes like nails down your heart. You start to stand—desperate, fatherly instinct rearing its head—but Newt fires you a warning look that freezes you in place.

You watch, helpless, as Newt tightens his grip. “Okay, Tommy, you need to wake up now.”

There’s a hint of strain in his voice now, but he doesn’t let go—just closes his eyes. His jaw clenches and a moment later, Stiles lurches awake, gasping. Something just happened that you don’t even  _ remotely  _ understand, but you can puzzle it out later. For now, you make yourself useful getting a glass of water from the bathroom and pressing it into Newt’s free hand.

Stiles is hiccupping through the last of his sobs and Newt rubs his back in firm, practised circles. “Breathe, Tommy, it’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Stiles chokes out. “Sorry.”

You aren’t sure who he’s apologizing to and perhaps it doesn’t matter—you won’t be able to offer your son any kind of forgiveness—not for wounds this deep.

Newt shakes his head and he looks exhausted, pale, and old in the dim hotel lamplight. “It’s okay.”

Not knowing what else to do, you flick on the TV to some stupid reality show and get them all snacks from the vending machine.

When you come back, Newt is coughing and Stiles is helping him drink a glass of water—cheeks dry now and gaze focused. You work up the courage to squeeze his shoulder and are rewarded with a timorous smile.

You all  sit in silence, side by side by side, until the sun presses against the thick curtains and spills into the room, casting beams of light on the ugly shag carpet.

_ _

On the second night in a hotel, it’s Newt that wakes you up with nightmares. Once again you hover helplessly at the end of the bed while Stiles tries to shake Newt out of it.

“Newt,” he practically begs—face twisted up in a grimace of pain. “Wake up, buddy. You’re killing me, here.”

Eventually, he resorts to dumping a large glass of water over Newt’s head and that does it. Newt jerks awake with a bitten-off scream and Stiles flinches—the glass slipping from his trembling hands. You quietly scoop it off the mattress as Newt presses his forehead to Stiles.’

“Shit. ‘M sorry, Tommy.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles murmurs, an echo of the night before. “It’s okay.”

You wonder when that will be true.

_ _

Newt is in the passenger seat today while Stiles sleeps in the backseat and the woods of northern California whip past outside the windows.

“What’s it like?” Newt asks suddenly, breaking almost twenty minutes of silence and wrenching you from the daze you’d been slipping into.

“Beacon Hills?”

A nod. And right, you’re going to have an actual conversation; you’re  fairly certain you can handle that.

“Pretty. We have a nature reserve, so lots of woods and wildlife. It’s a decent size city with a large downtown area and much more quiet suburb. That’s where I live—the quiet part of town. I think you’ll like it. It’s a nice house, a bit on the old side, but roomy. Lots of trees….”

You trail off awkwardly and so much for nailing that. Shit.

But Newt is nodding, a contemplative look on his face. “Quiet would be good.”

And hell if you know what that’s supposed to mean.

Newt picks at the sleeve of his hoodie. “Though I’m not sure I know how to handle quiet.”

“I think it’ll get easier,” you venture. “If you give it time.”

“Time heals all wounds?” Newt asks, wry.

You huff a tired laugh. “Something like that.”

Newt shakes his head, sparing a glance back at Stiles. You’re tempted to leave it there, but you’re still a father, damnit – even if you’re tragically out of practice.

“Look … I’m not … I know that’s a trite saying and things like this … they take a lot of time. And some things you never get back. But if there’s anything I can do to help, kid. I’m here.”

Newt is staring at you with barely concealed surprise when you finally manage to ramble to a halting finish. “Just like that?” He sounds wary, again—the same cornered cat with its hackles up.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you point out, feeling helpless.

Newt shrugs. He’s got a scar under one eye that’s pale in the afternoon sunlight and it makes him look older than he should be. “For now.”

He doesn’t elaborate but you get it. Without giving yourself too much time to think, you reach over and squeeze the kid’s bony shoulder, ignoring the slight flinch you get in response. “The only way you leave is if you decide to, got it?”

There’s a pregnant pause before Newt blurts, sharp, “Why?”

And you can’t explain that without it sounding far too close to pity so you shrug  and aim for casual. “Everyone deserves support.”

Newt’s lips quirk in a sardonic smile and you get the distinct impression the kid has seen right through you. “But especially traumatized teenage orphans?”

You manage a smile in return. “Sure, it was the right thing to do, kid, but it isn’t pity motivating me. I doubt anyone could pity you.”

Newt arches one of those expressive eyebrows at you. “Why?”

You keep your eyes on the deserted highway as you say, quiet, “You’re still alive.”

Silence descends. Newt turns to the window again, but his shoulders relax a fraction and you think that maybe, just maybe, you said something right.

_ _

Stiles wakes as you approach the town limits, jerking upright with a faint gasp. Newt twists in his seat before you can react and places a hand on Stiles’ knee. And Stiles, you note, relaxes immediately.

“We’re almost there,” you say. It doesn’t feel right calling it “home” – not just yet.

Hopefully that will change.

Stiles nods, wiping sleep from his eyes, and turns to the window. You miss your chatterbox of a boy and try desperately not to. 

Fifteen minutes later, you pull into the driveway and park the car. Stiles is the last one out and there’s no recognition in his eyes as he stares at the house he was born in and spent his childhood in and lost his mother in. You stubbornly ignore the sharp, vicious ache in your ribs at that, and will your hands not to shake as you unlock the front door.

Christ, you did not think this through.

Though you  _ are  _ glad you had the foresight to call Melissa and ask her to remove everything but the furniture from Stiles’ room as soon as you learned your son had lost his memories. The doctors insisted that overwhelming him like that wouldn’t be a good idea – especially considering this is chemically induced amnesia (which shouldn’t even be possible) and no one really knows how to deal with it yet.

“This is it,” you force yourself to say as you slip on the lights and ushers the boys into the house. “Kitchen, living room, and dining room are all on this floor. Plus a bathroom.” You point out the individual rooms as you speak. “Upstairs are my room, Stiles’ bedroom, another bathroom and a study, which we can make into a room for Newt—”

“No,” Stiles cuts you off quickly and you startle because that’s the first thing Stiles has said in almost a day and God, he sounds terrified.

“Tommy,” Newt murmurs, using what you have started dubbing his “deliberately calm” voice, and Stiles retreats back behind his walls with record speed.

“I mean, you shouldn’t have to move and we’re better off sharing. We’re fine sharing.”

“Kid,” you hope none of your own inner turmoil is leaking into your voice, “it’s your house.”

Stiles recoils at that—like he’s only just remembered—and it’s Newt that steps in this time. “Still, we prefer to share, if that’s alright?”

You nod, happy to give them whatever they ask for at the moment, and gesture to the stairs again. “Just turn the corner and it’s the first door on the left.”

They nod in almost perfect sync and walk up the stairs like they’re marching into a dangerous jungle. It would be funny…

Alone for the first time in two days, you suddenly feel like you’re drowning. It hits you as you wander into the kitchen with the intention of ordering pizza for dinner and you feel your knees give out just in time to sink into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Your son is upstairs with scars and amnesia and shadows in his eyes that you have no idea how to remove. Your son.

Five years you dreamt of this day—told yourself that no matter what condition they found Stiles in, as long as your boy was alive nothing else mattered, but. You didn’t expect your son not to know you.

Trauma is one thing, but  _ this _ ?

How do you fix  _ this _ ?

Your  _ son _ and you  _ can’t _ …

You set down the phone and for the first time since receiving the call from Arizona ( _ one month and eight days _ ) allow yourself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note - while the other characters from Teen Wolf will feature this is predominantly going to be a Stiles, Papa Stilinski, and Newt story. Everyone else is kind of just supporting. My apologies if that's not your cup of tea.


	3. in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIVE!!
> 
> My deepest apologies for taking an age to finish this. Note to self: don't start a story without a proper outline, idiot. It won't go well for you. 
> 
> If anyone is left out there, thank you for your wonderful patience. I finally (mostly) know where I'm going with this so hopefully updates should be a bit more regular now.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this long overdue chapter. 
> 
> \- C x

The walls are a pale blue. He wonders, absently, if they’re supposed to be soothing. If so, someone wasted a ton of paint.

The room is spacious - more than he thought it would be - with a desk and a dresser and a big double bed. He supposes this must be what a typical teenager’s room looks like, even if the walls are suspiciously bare. What did his eleven-year-old self have hanging on them?

It probably doesn’t matter. It’s not like he’s going to remember. That kid is long dead, whoever he was.

“This is nice,” Newt ventures, running his hand over the white surface of the desk.

“Yeah.” He wishes he could feel something beyond the crushing emptiness sitting in the middle of his chest. But … nothing. This is like standing in a stranger’s room, trying to get a glimpse into their life.

Who died here? Where are the clues?

Fuck, he’s cracking, isn’t he?

Newt’s fingers close over his shoulder and then he’s being pulled into a hug. It’s a nice hug. And right now he has no qualms about burying his face in Newt’s neck while he counts his breaths, trying to keep them even. 

“We’re gonna be okay,” Newt tells him and Thomas chooses to believe him, even though he can hear the crack in Newt’s voice – fear and uncertainty splitting the words.

They’re experts at lying to themselves. Been doing it for five fucking years.

“Yeah,” he says again and pulls away, wiping a hand over his face. They _are._ They have to be. They survived the fucking maze, didn’t they? Beacon Hills and the ghost of Stiles Stilinski should be a walk in the park.

He looks at the empty blue walls, the plain black bedspread, the white desk, and has the stupid, sudden urge to fill the space with clutter – make this sterile room seem lived in again. Maybe then he can erase the spectre of the past he can practically _feel_ hovering in the air.

“Do you think we’ll ever remember?” He asks Newt as he sinks carefully down onto the bed.

It’s too soft.

Newt shrugs and sits down beside him. He looks tired, washed out—as ghost-like as the room—and Thomas hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know how to fix it. Newt was slipping through his fingers long before their rescue—his powers taking such a terrible toll on him. It’s a fear Thomas still lives with: that one day he’ll wake up and find Newt still and cold beside him.

That’s the day he cracks for good.

“I don’t know. The doctors didn’t seem to think so. But they’ve never dealt with chemically induced amnesia before, so I suppose anything’s possible.”

“Great. Just what I always wanted: to be unexplored scientific territory.”

That gets a small smile to tug at the corner of Newt’s mouth. “I know, right? Look at us, Tommy. Modern marvels.”

Thomas laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound, but he doesn’t remember the last time it was.

“We waited so fucking long to get rescued, Newt, but now I think the maze was easier.”

Newt picks at the bedspread beneath them. Black – so boring. He hates it. Maybe John would be open to buying a patterned one or something. He’s so fucking sick of solid colors, even as he fears anything else.

Stupid brain.

“I don’t think it was _easier.”_ Another shrug. “Simpler, maybe.”

Definitely simpler. He never thought he would miss living in the Glade and spending half his time farming for survival, but here he is. There, at least, he knew what he was—a leader, a warrior, a runner, a killer. He knows how to be all of those things, even when it hurts, but he has no idea how to be a teenager.

What do typical sixteen-year-olds even like?

“We’re gonna have to go to school,” he says, running an agitated hand through his hair. “And learn how to use computers and smartphones and all of that shit. We’re gonna have to be _normal._ How on earth are we going to pull _that_ off? I don’t even know where to start. I mean … _history_ classes, Newt. I don’t even know current events. Like, we have a president, right? I don’t even know his _name._ How are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off before he can ramble any further and sucks in a deep breath through his nose.

Calm. Stay calm.

Newt is looking slightly panicked, too, but he forces a shaky smile. “Fake it ‘til we make it. Isn’t that something Minho used to say?”

Minho. God, he misses Minho. Misses all of them.

“Yeah.” Another battered laugh. He’s going to need to work on that. “Yeah, he did. And Alby was always telling us to just take it one thing at a time.”

“Like a walking motivational poster,” Newt fires back and grief knots sharp in his chest.

“He was, wasn’t he,” he says through it, swallowing down the burn in his throat.

He wonders, suddenly, if they dug Alby’s body up, or any of the others.  Did they get to go home to their families or are they still in the woods of the Glade, forever trapped in that God-forsaken maze? Newt squeezes his hand, _hard,_ and he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“I’m sure they did,” Newt murmurs. “They must have, right?”

“You should probably stay out of my head,” he says instead of offering pointless reassurances. “Minefield.”

“I’m not _in_ your head,” Newt retorts, the other half of this well-worn exchange. “You’re broadcasting down the link. Might as well be bloody shouting.”

As far as he knows, he’s only the second person Newt has linked with to this depth: a two-way connection that allows them to share thoughts and emotions; to always know if the other person is in danger. It’s saved his life more than once—is probably _currently_ saving his life—but it isn’t without cost. The other person was Alby and Newt was in a coma for three days after he died, and, look, Thomas isn't much of a believer in anything, but fuck he’d prayed then. With everything he had.

Newt had hauled himself back from the brink, but it’s not something they’ll ever forget. When it was clear they’d developed the same kind of link, Newt had smiled at him and said, “Be careful, Tommy. You go out, you’ll be taking me with you.”

He holds that knowledge close to his heart. His death will never just be _his,_ and that isn’t an easy burden to bear, but it’s kept him from being too reckless so that’s probably something.

“Sorry,” he says to Newt now and sighs. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Newt replies immediately, always so forgiving. “But my point was one step at a time. So, what’s step one?”

“Dinner. Probably.” He glances at the clock on the wall. Nearly seven pm, which is a normal time for dinner, right? They’d tried to maintain a routine in the Glade, but it had never really been set by hours. They built a fire and ate when it got dark and the doors of the maze closed; they’d gotten up and started their day when the doors opened at dawn.

Simple.

“Dinner,” Newt repeats and nods, decisive. “C’mon, then. Dinner shouldn’t be too hard.”

It shouldn’t be, but it means sitting down with a man who is supposed to be his father. He keeps looking at John Stilinski and expecting to be hit with a jolt of recognition, but so far there is nothing besides this numb emptiness. This is the man who raised him for _eleven years_ ; Thomas can see some of his own features reflected in John’s kind, weathered face. But he’s a stranger and might always be and _that_ is what Thomas hates Ava Paige for the most.

_Bitch._

“Yeah,” he says and stands. “Yeah. Dinner.”

They traipse down the stairs together—floorboards creaking beneath their socked feet—and venture into the kitchen. John is sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of what looks like alcohol and Thomas feels a strange twist in his stomach, like a faded echo of something once visceral - the ghost of Stiles in the back of his broken mind.

He pushes the weird sensation away as John looks up at them with a tired smile. “Hey, I ordered pizza. Hope that’s okay?”

He has absolutely no idea what pizza is, but it’s most likely going to be better than the food they survived off of in the fucking maze. He’s almost excited to eat something that he didn’t have to kill or farm himself. What a novelty.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

There’s a long, awkward silence before John sighs and gestures at them to sit. “The room okay?”

He shrugs and quickly decides not to mention how sterile it feels. Again, it’s a lot better than what he’s used to and he doesn’t want to offend John or anything. At least, not until he’s gotten a better read on the man’s personality. “Yeah, it’s fine. Beats a hammock.”

“Amen to that,” Newt says and a little of the thick tension eases. Enough to breathe, anyway.

“I figure we can go shopping for some more things in a few days. Give you guys some time to settle in. Scott’s already calling to see when he can come over, but I told him he can cool it for a while. Don’t want to overwhelm you,” John continues, thankfully putting the bottle back in the cupboard before returning to the table.

Scott is probably another name he’s supposed to know. Childhood friend, maybe? He’s pretty sure John’s wife is dead so if he had another son, he would probably live here. Unless Scott is older? But surely John would have mentioned a brother. Right?

“Scott…” He says slowly and watches John grimace.

“Right. Sorry, I forgot, uh … Scott’s an old friend. You guys grew up together. Attached at the hip from age five. He was, um, pretty devastated when you disappeared. Put up posters all over town, wouldn’t stop badgering the police to do a better job. Never gave up on you.”

Thomas stares down at the table so that he doesn’t have to see the sorrow in John’s eyes. Or maybe so he can hide the lack of emotion in his own. There is no face to go with Scott’s name, not even a glimmer of recognition for the boy who apparently cared about him enough to search for him for _years._

Absurdly, he wants to apologize to them both. They were hoping for Stiles, praying for his safe return, and they got Thomas instead—a bloodstained stranger wearing Stiles’ skin.

“I may never remember,” he blurts before he can stop himself. John looks startled and Newt shifts closer to him in silent support. He swallows. Forces himself to continue. John needs to hear this; best get it out of the way now. “You might never … you may never get him back, okay? I’m not him. I just … you have to understand that. I’m not him. He’s dead. He’s gone and you might always be a stranger to me and I’m _sorry_ for that, I am, but I can’t … I can’t deal with your hope, okay? With you sitting there, day after day, waiting to get your son back when I might never…”

He’s shocked when his vision starts to blur, when panic wraps harsh fingers around his throat and starts to cut off his air. He _never_ lost it in the maze, not until Chuck … not until then. He kept it together through Alby and Gally and everyone else they lost. Through the blood on their hands and the deaths on their consciences; the trials of the maze and the conflicts that sparked between the Gladers. He kept his head and _that_ was what made him a decent leader.

Or at least enough of one to somewhat fill Alby’s shoes, even if he couldn’t save them all.

So, if he could stay calm through all of that _shit,_ then _why_ is he losing it now? He’s safe and it’s _over_ and he doesn’t _get it._

“Hey,” John is saying, laying a calloused hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s okay.”

 _“Breathe, Tommy,”_ Newt whispers in his mind—fingers curled steady and anchoring over his shoulder. _“I’ve got you.”_

“Sorry,” he gasps out and is surprised when John immediately shakes his head.

“It’s okay, kid. It’s fine. Pretty sure it’s normal.”

“Normal? Something about this situation is _normal?”_ He asks in disbelief. At least his lungs have decided to start working again. His eyes are clearing up, too, and he’s _pretty_ sure no traitorous tears got free.

The last thing he wants to do is _cry_ in front of John on his first night here. Man probably has enough to deal with without adding a weepy teenager to the mix - especially one that just lectured him on hoping for his son to come back.

“Yeah, this is,” John says. He leans back in his chair, withdrawing his hand. For some weird, inexplicable reason, Thomas misses the touch. “Now that you’re out of survival mode, your mind is finally processing what happened to you. And usually that also means taking the time to freak out about it. Saw it all the time in soldiers returning home from war. Experienced it myself, too.”

Well that’s … actually kind of comforting.

“And about what you just said. I-”

The doorbell rings, making them all jump. John shakes his head and stands, chair squeaking loud across the linoleum. “Just a sec.”

He vanishes out into the hallway and Thomas starts again when Newt touches his arm.

“ _He loves you, Tommy. Believe that, at least. He’s scared and in over his head, but he loves you.”_

“He loves a version of me,” Thomas whispers back, half-listening to the sound of John conversing with what must be the pizza delivery guy. “He loves Stiles.”

“He loves _you,”_ Newt insists. “Trust me.”

John returns before they can continue the argument. “Can you get plates?” He gestures with his free hand. “Left cupboard. Glasses are on the right and napkins are in the top drawer over there.”

It’s a relief, having something to do, even for a brief moment. He stacks three plates on the counter—old and chipped, with fading floral patterns—while Newt does the same for glasses and napkins. John dishes out the pizza (and _fuck_ it smells _amazing)_ and then they’re all resuming their awkward positions around the table.

“Right,” John says after a pregnant pause. “Dig in.”

He picks up the pizza and takes a big bite. Thomas mimics him and _holy shit._ It tastes _incredible—_ like, this is the greatest thing he’s ever tasted in what he can remember of his life.

“Fuck,” he says out loud with great feeling and Newt makes a sound of agreement around a mouthful of pizza.

John smiles at them, a little easier and warmer than before. “This is amazing,” Thomas continues when he’s managed to swallow his first bite. “Seriously, can we have this all the time?”

“You’d gain about fifty pounds,” John replies and kindly doesn’t point out that Thomas probably _needs_ to gain some weight. He’s healthy, he knows, but he and the other Gladers lived off a limited diet for years. Some malnourishment was inevitable, even with the box sending up supplies every month.

“Besides,” John adds, “there’s plenty of other great food out there to try. Wait until you have hamburgers.”

He has no idea what that is, but if it tastes anything close to this good, he’s sold. “Sure. Yes. All of it.”

John smiles again and puts more pizza on their plates. They eat four slices each and it’s probably going to make him sick later, but he doesn’t care. After dinner, he and Newt wash the dishes while John takes the empty box out to the garage.

“Look,” he says when he comes back in, leaning against the kitchen counter. Thomas, with water and soap suds up to his elbows, tries not to feel trapped. “About what you said earlier. That _isn’t_ what I’m expecting. Sure, the fact that you don’t remember me at all is …” He hesitates—pure, uncontrollable _grief_ fleeting over his face that hits Thomas like a punch to the gut. “…hard. But I knew you wouldn’t be the same. How could you be? You … Stiles, you were _eleven_ when you were taken. And the minute that happened whatever you might have been was gone. I don’t _know_ what you would have been like if … I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. All I wanted was to find you alive and I have.”

Thomas can see a wet sheen coating John’s eyes and that sharp twist curls in his stomach again, stabbing between his ribs. “I’m just glad to have you back, kid,” John gets out. “We can work the rest out, okay?” He wipes a hand over his face, composing himself. “And, look, do you want me to call you Thomas? Would that be … would that help?”

Thomas shakes his head, surprising himself at the quick denial. “No. No Stiles is fine.”

Stiles has a father and a room and pizza dinners. Even if Thomas doesn’t know how to fit into Stiles’ skin yet, he wants to try.

_ _

  
“This bed is too soft.”

Thomas shifts from watching the shadows of the trees dancing on the far wall, rolling over to face Newt. “Yeah. Wanna move to the floor?”

Newt stubbornly shakes his head. “No. Just making an observation.”

Thomas huffs a dry laugh and shifts again, trying to find a comfortable position. The mattress sinks beneath his weight, like it’s trying to swallow him whole or something. “Did he mean what he said? Downstairs?”

“Yes,” Newt replies. His blond hair glints silver in the moonlight and the red scar under his eye is blackened by shadows. Thomas wonders, suddenly, when it will heal. Or if it ever will.

Some wounds don’t.

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say beyond that, how to process any of this, so he does what he’s good at and shoves it to the back of his mind—to be dealt with another day. Or never.

Never might be good.

“What about our powers?” Newt asks suddenly, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Thomas frowns. “What about them?”

“We can’t keep them a secret forever.”

“Yes we can. We _have_ to. C’mon, Newt, who’s gonna believe us? Or if they do believe us, they’ll probably just lock us up again. I don’t want to go back to being someone’s lab rat.”

“Neither do I,” Newt retorts and then sighs. “But we don’t understand them, Tommy. They’re dangerous.”

“We’re not gonna go feral,” Thomas insists through the twinge of fear running down his spine. “We’ve had them too long. That won’t happen.”

“Maybe not. But they’re not stable. We barely had a grip on them in the maze. Out here…”

Thomas curls closer, trying to offer the reassurance he knows his words can’t provide. “It’ll be fine, okay? We just … we won’t use them.”

“Won’t use them? I don’t think it’s that bloody simple,” Newt says, sounding frustrated.

“Things are … things are quiet now, right? We won’t _have_ to use them.”

“Tommy…”

“Let’s just try this, Newt, okay? Just for a while. Who knows? Maybe outside of the maze, they’ll fade. Either way, I’m not risking our future over it. Not when we finally _have_ a future.”

Newt sighs again, long and weary, but dips his head in acknowledgment. “Fine. We ignore it. For now. But I’m going to be very smug when this blows up in our faces.”

“And I’ll be very smug when it doesn’t.”

“Agreed.”

They trade wavering smiles before Thomas shifts again, pulling the covers up a little higher over their shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here,” he admits—the confession coming easier in the stillness of the room. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t.”

“Well considering I’d be facing two years at an orphanage by myself otherwise, I’m glad I’m here, too,” Newt says. “Thank you for fighting for me, Tommy.”

“Always. We do this together, remember? Beginning to end.”

He reaches for Newt’s hand and squeezes it tightly. It was a promise they made after Alby’s death—faced with three dozen terrified boys in need of a leader, never mind the fact that they were terrified boys themselves.

 _Together,_ Newt had said once the funeral was over, _or not at all._

“Together,” he repeats now and squeezes back.

Thomas moves closer still, soaking up the solid warmth of Newt’s presence as he drapes an arm over Newt’s waist. Sleep comes fast and unexpected, dragging him under between one breath and the next.

_ _

_The grass is wet, soaking through the knees of his pants. He can hear the blood dripping from his hands, hitting the ground with wet splashes._

_Around him, the earth is far too still. Like all the breath has left it._

_In front of him, the life is fading from Newt’s eyes._

_The other boys are gathered at his back, even the ghosts. Alby, with black poison in his veins; Gally, with his throat gaping wide; Chuck, with a hole in his chest._

_Newt wheezes and blood bubbles to his lips. Trails down his chin._

_“It’s okay,” he rasps. “It’s okay, Tommy.”_

_He can feel a scream building in his throat, but no sound escapes when he parts his lips._

_“It’s okay,” Newt repeats. “You need to … finish it now.”_

_He shakes his head, helpless. The blood keeps dripping—thunder in his ears. There’s so **much** of it. _

_“Kill me,” Newt says._

_“Do it, Thomas,” Alby instructs._

_“No,” he gets out around the scream. “No, I can’t…”_

_“You killed the rest of us,” Chuck says._

_“What’s one more?” Gally adds._

_“Please, Thomas, please,” Newt murmurs._

_“No,” he says again, louder now. “No!” Not Newt. Please, anyone but Newt. He can live without anyone else, he can, but **Newt** …_

_“Coward,” Alby spits._

_“Hypocrite,” Gally snarls._

_“Traitor,” Chuck declares with more sorrow than anger._

_“Tommy,” Newt says, “wake up now.”_

_Wait … what?_

_The others are starting to yell—the living and the dead, all demanding blood, recognition, memory. So many things he cannot give. Newt’s eyes are still empty. His mouth isn’t moving, but Thomas can hear…_

_“Wake up, Tommy! You need to wake up.”_

_A familiar hand lands on his shoulder, shaking him hard and he—_

Sits up in bed with a bitten-off gasp, chest heaving. The covers are twisted up on the floor and Newt is hovering next to him, hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

_Alive._

Thomas reaches for him on blind instinct, yanking him close. He lets out a startled sound, but recovers quickly and wraps his arms around Thomas in turn.

“I’ve got you.” His voice is cracking and strained, which probably means…

“Did you see?” They’ve shared dreams sometimes. It’s never been a pleasant experience.

“Yeah,” Newt murmurs, pulling back to sit against the wall. His gaze is haunted. “I’m okay.”

Thomas still feels like shit—always has for dragging Newt into his nightmares. “Sorry. I don’t know what…”

Newt waves a dismissive, tired hand. “Pretty sure this is normal, too. The pamphlet they gave us mentioned something about horrifying nightmares.”

“Right.” Thomas sits next to him, reaching down to pull the duvet over their legs. “Page three, I think.”

Newt breathes out the ghost of a laugh.  “Something like that.”

And crap, he totally forgot about … “Is John still asleep?”

Newt nods. “Yeah. You were only screaming in our heads, not out loud.”

Right. Great.

“Fantastic.”

Outside the sun is beginning to lighten the sky, which means that they got a few hours of sleep, at least.

“So, let’s not try that again.”

Newt arches an eyebrow at him. “Sleep? Pretty sure it’s going to be a requirement at some point.”

“I meant for tonight.”

“Ah, then yes. Complete agreement on that from me. That was bloody awful.”

Thomas presses their shoulders together and Newt pats his knee and they sit, side by side, watching the sun rise through the misted glass of Stiles’ bedroom window.


	4. hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! A new chapter within a week. Look at me go. 
> 
> We're still moving a little slow, but bear with me, folks. Things will pick up in due time. Also, just for future reference all chapters labelled "out" are from John's point of view, "in" is Stiles/Thomas's, and "hold" is Newt's.
> 
> And for further reference, this mostly take place during season two of Teen Wolf. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck around. Enjoy! <3

The truck rattles—creaks and groans like a dying thing—but the noise of it feels soothing. He’s been forged in chaos, in fire, and he’s never known quite what to do with calm. Quiet is merely the pause to let other things in: doubts, whispers, fears. And in the calm he can feel the power like poison underneath his skin, saturating his bones, curling in the back of his mind.

He wonders, sometimes, when it’s late and Thomas is asleep, if the power is killing him—slowly seeping into his veins, his lungs, his heart. If it’s turning him into something inhuman, or if that happened a long time ago and he just can’t remember.

He’s afraid of what he can do in a way that Thomas isn’t. Thomas’s power lives in the air around him, in the objects he can manipulate, the currents he can control. Newt’s is of the mind—his own and others. Thomas can hurl objects like they’re made of paper and Newt can destroy someone’s thoughts, shut off their brain. And yes, it makes him feel like there is a fire sitting in the middle of his chest and brings blood bubbling up like bile to his lips and nose and ears, but he _can_ do it. He _has_ done it.

And power like that should never dwell beneath human skin. So what does that make him? What has _Ava Paige_ made him?

It’s a question without an answer. She removed herself from the equation and took her secrets and motivations with her to her grave.

So for now there is Beacon Hills rolling past out the window, the rumble of the truck around him, the warmth of Thomas in the front seat, and the steadiness of John’s calloused hands on the wheel. He focuses on these things instead of the tense coil of emotions in the air. John radiates a mixture of hope and desperation, love and grief, and Thomas, as always, is an open wound, bleeding fear and rage alongside wisps of tentative optimism.

He loves Thomas. Thomas is … he’s never been able to completely define it, but it’s something. Perhaps _everything._ And yet he’s never known how to soothe the wound, to stitch it shut—not when he carries the same gaping tears. They all do.

The maze didn’t allow them to remain whole.

“I thought we could go out to the preserve,” John is saying. “There’s some beautiful nature trails out there and the weather’s great today.”

They’ve already seen the downtown and the high school, which filled Newt with a mixture of fear and dread.

Normal teenage life feels like a foreign country, a book written in a language he doesn’t understand.

“Sure,” Thomas says.

He keeps stealing glances at John, searching for memories on his weathered face.

They tried once, to get their memories back via Newt’s powers. It didn’t end well. Newt had coughed up what felt like half the blood in his body and Thomas hadn’t moved for a day. Newt had been terrified that he’d put Thomas in some kind of coma, but the next morning Thomas had gotten up and carried on with life as normal, even though he was still pale and drawn.

They’d never attempted again.

John pulls onto a road off the highway, past a sign marking the edge of the preserve. Here the bare trees tower, bigger and older than those in the Glade, but a sense of déjà vu still shivers down his spine.

Ten minutes later, they’re leaving the truck behind, following a dirt path away from the parking lot into the woods.

“We used to come here all the time,” John says, lost in thought.

Thomas looks at him—a raw, painful hunger on his face. “We did?”

John smiles, sad. “Yeah. Especially after…” he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. The doctors said that you need to regain—”

“No,” Thomas cuts in and Newt aches for him. “No, please. Tell me.”

Thomas has never felt young, not even during his first few days in the Glade, but he does now.

John still hesitates for a long moment. When he continues, his voice is carefully even. “After your mother died. It became … suffocating. All the well-wishers with casserole dishes. So we’d come out here to get away from it all. Walk until dark.”

Newt watches Thomas absorb this and not for the first time feels a well of relief that he has no parents he’s forgotten, no one looking at him the way John looks at Thomas—with so much heartache and sorrow and painful love. The blank spaces in his brain still grate, hurt, but they don’t cut him open the way they do Thomas.

“How old was I?” Thomas asks. “When she died?”

They’re walking uphill now, climbing to the top of a steep ridge. After months cooped up inside the hospital facility, Newt has to admit that the exercise and clean air is nice, in spite of the lingering pain in his leg.

“Eight,” John says, quiet. “You were eight.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, eyes on the ground.

“It was frontotemporal dementia,” John replies. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Thomas shakes his head. “I’m still sorry.”

Silence descends, heavy and cloying, and Newt peers up at the canopy overhead to distract himself from the shared grief festering between father and son. “I like the trees,” he says. “They’re better than the ones in the Glade.”

“Well they were probably meant to grow here,” Thomas snarks at him, voice a little sharp, but a rush of relief floods the bond, followed by a soft _“thank you.”_

“The Glade?” John asks, which sends Thomas tensing right back up.

Bloody hell.

“There was an open space in the center of the maze,” he explains so that Thomas won’t have to. “We called it the Glade. It had some small woods, fields … we built shelters there. It was the one safe place.”

“Yeah, until they decided it wasn’t,” Thomas adds, fury sparking the words.

John shoots them a questioning look and Newt once again steps in. It’s easier than he thought it would be, talking about the maze with someone who never had to experience it. Cathartic, almost. “There were doors on four sides of the Glade. Normally, they would close at night and open in the morning. When they were shut, monsters would roam the maze. But sometimes … the doors wouldn’t close and the monsters would attack the Glade.”

He still remembers the horror that seized his heart the first time it happened—the thunderous echo of all four doors rumbling open, powerful enough to shake the ground beneath his feet. The Grievers killed four Gladers that night and grievously injured a fifth. The survivors walked away with the sinking, terrible knowledge that they weren’t safe anywhere. That no matter how hard they tried, there was nowhere they could run, nowhere they could hide, to escape the whims of whoever had trapped them.

“Jesus,” John mutters under his breath.

“It was completely random,” Thomas says. His hand is still balled into a fist at his side. “Sometimes it would stay open three nights in a row and other times it wouldn’t happen for months.”

“We could never figure out a discernible pattern.”

“It was whenever they fucking felt like it,” Thomas snaps and wipes a hand over his face.

John reaches out and clasps his shoulder, squeezing tight, and Newt doesn’t miss the way Thomas leans into the touch.

“Do you want to go back ho-to the hosue?” He’s never called it home around them and Newt wishes, suddenly, that he would. Yes, it doesn’t _feel_ like home yet, nothing does, nothing _can,_ but it would be nice: to know that it _might_ someday. That it’s there, waiting for them.

Thomas shakes his head. “No, it’s nice out here. Let’s keep going.” He glances at Newt for confirmation and Newt nods.

It _is_ nice out here. The air is cleaner, purer, than the air in the maze. He can feel the _life_ here—the creatures darting through the trees, a stream flowing nearby, the rustle of the trees themselves as they sway in the crisp winter breeze. It tastes almost like freedom.

He keeps wondering, in the back of his mind where the fear lurks, when they’ll wake up.

_ _

He can’t sleep. There’s an itch under his skin, a thousand ants crawling through his bones, and the quiet room is slowly suffocating him.

Thomas is peacefully under for once, curled up on his side, and Newt carefully peels back the covers and inches his way out of bed. He tucks the duvet back over Thomas’s shoulders even though it’s not that cold in the room. Old habits, he supposes. Thomas shifts onto his stomach but doesn’t wake and Newt creeps out the door on socked feet.

He probably shouldn’t be wandering the house at night, not when it could risk upsetting John, but if he sits still any longer he’ll end up screaming the walls down. He has the most absurd urge to go for a run, and it’s strong enough that he pauses near the front door, hand hovering over the knob.

Thomas would have a panic attack if he woke to find him missing, though, and the ache in his leg is heartily protesting the stupid idea. He heads for the kitchen instead. Something he doesn’t understand is telling him to make a cup of tea.

Perhaps it’s a British thing? Some cultural instinct rearing up from the blackened waste of his memories?

He’s too strung out to contemplate it any further than that. Tea is much more sensible than running; he can do tea.

He flicks on the electric kettle and starts rummaging around in the cupboards. There are tea bags in the third one he opens: soothing camomile.

Worth a try, he supposes.

He’s waiting for the kettle to boil when he hears the creak of floorboards near the doorway, senses a mind that isn’t Thomas’s. He pulls a knife from the block on the counter and raises it before his brain catches up with his body.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice says. “Easy, kid. It’s just me.”

John. The mind and voice are John’s. He nearly hurled a knife at John’s head.

He drops it into the sink with a clatter and a shaky exhale as John turns on the light.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, I…” He’s not sure how to explain himself, but John is shaking his head and holding up a staying hand.

“It’s fine. I get it. Fight or flight response, all of that.”

His eyes track to the mug on the counter and the steaming kettle. Newt thinks about apologizing again. Is he not supposed to go through the cupboards? He’s still figuring out where the proper boundaries are and the absolute last thing he wants to do is push them far enough for John to throw him out.

“Pour me a cup?” John asks, sitting down at the kitchen table.

Newt blinks at him, thrown, for a long moment before he remembers his manners and wordlessly retrieves a second mug from the cupboard.

John is more careful around him than Thomas—keeps his emotions locked down where Newt can’t always reach—and it’s understandable and frustrating in equal measure. He senses no ill will, no regret for taking him in like a stray dog his son brought home with him, but also no attachment. Just uncertainty, wariness, that he has absolutely no bloody idea how to approach or resolve.

So he focuses on pouring the tea.

He also has no idea how to make tea, but something is insisting there should be milk. Once again, he follows the long-forgotten muscle memory, trying not to freak out about John’s assessing gaze boring into his back. He manages to set the mug in front of John without spilling any and then sits himself down at the table, as well, because he might be nervous about this situation but he’s no coward.

“Thanks,” John says with a stitched-up smile. A pregnant pause and then, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Newt shakes his head. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to sleep again, if he _ever_ will, but he keeps that to himself. “You?”

“I haven’t slept in five years,” John replies.

“I know the feeling,” Newt mumbles into his tea.

John is going to ask about the maze. He knows before the first question leaves the man’s lips—the weight of it sits in the air, buzzes in the stillness between them. He can _feel_ it there: the spark of John’s fear and dread and courage. He doesn’t want to know, but he _has_ to.

And maybe the same goes for Newt.

“They didn’t tell us anything,” John begins. “No real details about what you’d went through. Earlier today … was it always like that?”

Newt stares down at the long scar on his arm that runs from elbow to wrist and feels a hot jolt of phantom pain. “Yes,” he says because he’s no coward and he _won’t_ run from this. He won’t let Ava Paige win, even if it’s from beyond the grave. “Most of the time. Sometimes it was worse.”

“Worse?” John prompts.

He swallows and take a fortifying swig of his tea. Surprisingly, the warmth of it running down his throat, settling in his chest, helps ease a little of the mounting panic. “There were other dangers besides the monsters.”

How much should he say? How many gory details is he allowed to reveal? This is not just his story and it never has been.

“Such as?” John remains patient, tentative. Newt feels an odd swell of gratitude for it.

“Sometimes it was the weather. Sometimes it was the others.” He can’t talk about the powers. John isn’t ready to hear that the teenage boys he’s taken in are probably no longer human—that his _son_ is probably no longer human. “There were conflicts. Strife. Sometimes they devolved into violence. And the monsters—we called them Grievers—if they bit you or stung you it … it turned you feral. Like a wild animal. Completely insane. There was no cure for it.”

“So what did you do?” John asks.

Newt drinks more tea in lieu of answering. His hands are trembling now, subtle twitches along his fingers. He shouldn’t reveal this—John wants to believe that someday they can be normal teenagers and this will utterly dash all of those hopes—but the words climb up his throat, press insistently against the back of his teeth, and refuse to surrender.

“We killed them,” he croaks out and curls his timorous hand into a fist against the wooden table top. “Sometimes we banished them into the maze. Other times that wasn’t possible so we … we tried to make it quick. Painless.”

It’s a pathetic excuse. One that’s perhaps not even true. He’ll never forget the agonized roar of Alby’s mind against his own—the terror the other boy felt as Thomas plunged the knife into his neck and Newt struggled to shut down his brain as quickly as possible.

It hurt, all of it, every second. It tore a hole through him that’s never healed.

He can’t look at John, can’t stop his shoulders from hunching defensively as he waits for the inevitable condemnation, and perhaps he is a little bit of a coward after all.

John breathes out, shaky and loud in the hush of the kitchen, and then a hand is closing over Newt’s arm. “Hey, look at me.”

He doesn’t _sound_ angry and his mind doesn’t _feel_ angry. That gives Newt the strength to haul his gaze up to John’s face. He sees sorrow and compassion written across it and something unknots in his chest.

“You did what you had to to survive, Newt,” John says, firm. “To protect others. No one can blame you for that.”

“Some of them probably had parents,” Newt protests. “They can.”

John squeezes his arm. “You said it yourself, right? There was no cure. Their child turned into a monster. They wouldn’t have gotten them back, anyway.”

God, his vision is blurring. He can’t remember the last time he cried and it seems idiotic to do it now of all times, but John is absolving him instead of condemning him as a murderer, a _monster,_ and that means much more than he thought it would. Someone outside the maze accepts the blood on his hands, understands the terrible choices he had to make.

It seems surreal.

John squeezes harder, anchoring him as he feels the tears starting to slip down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, feeling more than a little pathetic.

“You and Stiles need to stop apologizing,” John says, sad amusement coloring his voice. “It was war, kid. It was hell. You can never save everyone in a situation like that and you’re allowed to grieve for what you lost. Cry all you want. I’ve got you.”

And as if to prove his point, he stands up and wraps an arm around Newt’s shoulders. Newt has no idea how long they stay like that—John rubbing his back as he cries and cries and cries, messy and unhinged. The sorrow in him feels like an ocean that may never evaporate, but this small release is good, _needed._

He’s starting to pull himself back together when he feels a sudden spike of fear through the bond and Thomas practically shouts his name down it.

 _Downstairs,_ he replies as he hurriedly wipes his face, _in the kitchen._

He hears the echo of Thomas’s footsteps and a moment later Thomas all but skids into the kitchen, eyes wild. John steps back with a final squeeze to Newt’s shoulder and Newt manages to summon up a smile he hopes is reassuring.

“You were gone,” Thomas says and glances at John. Newt can sense embarrassment rising to the surface as Thomas realizes he overreacted. “I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Newt says and glances down at his cooling mug. He feels better, calmer, but still uninterested in returning to bed. “Want some tea?”

“Tea?” Thomas echoes, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s apparently very soothing,” Newt says, standing to turn the kettle on again.

John hovers in the doorway, radiating uncertainty. “I’ll leave you boys to it if you…”

“No,” Thomas says—that longing back on his face. “It’s fine. Stay.”

They end up back around the kitchen table, nursing steaming mugs. John rambles at them about Beacon Hills and weird things he’s encountered as a sheriff; Thomas cracks a smile that doesn’t look forced or broken, a huff of genuine laughter escaping once or twice, and under the table his knee presses firm and solid against Newt’s.

All things considered, it isn’t a terrible night.

_ _

“Newt,” Thomas whispers. The digital clock on the bedside table reads 2:46AM. Newt’s been staring at it for the past hour, afraid to close his eyes. “I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” Newt whispers back.

Thomas sits up, the bed creaking. “Right.”

Newt can feel the restlessness radiating from him, like a hum in the very air. He sits up, too, and watches Thomas cross the room and open his window. “What are you doing?”

Thomas scoops his trainers up from the floor and starts putting them on. “Going for a walk. John’s still asleep, right?”

Newt does a quick check and yes, he can feel John sleeping in the room down the hall, but. “That doesn’t make wandering off in the middle of the bloody night a good idea.”

Thomas’s jaw tenses. “I can’t say in here. I just … it won’t be for long. I need some air. That’s all. You coming?”

Newt sighs and picks his own sneakers up. He’s never been very good at saying no to Thomas, especially after Alby died and they assumed leadership of the Gladers. They _had_ to be a united front and somewhere along the way, Newt found himself conceding often on small things, hoping it would help keep the wounds from bleeding too badly.

He’s still not sure how well it worked, but he doesn’t regret it.

He follows Thomas out the window and onto the roof. It’s a steep incline and a decent drop to the ground. Thomas goes first, swinging himself down with ease. Newt sighs again—this is going to be bloody murder of his leg—and slides to the edge. He keeps a tight grip on the roof as he lowers himself down and falls the final few feet to the ground.

Right before he connects, he feels a familiar force catch him, slowing him down for a split second—just enough to take the impact out of the landing.

He shoots Thomas a wry look. “What was that about not using our powers?”

Thomas shrugs. “That was nothing.”

It wasn’t, really, but Thomas has done it before. Newt shakes his head and settles for patting Thomas’s arm in silent thanks. He’s too tired for a proper lecture, anyway.

They walk—the moon a sliver overhead and the woods black around them. Leaves crunch beneath their feet, gathered over the course of numerous autumns and winters, and the winter air is sharp in his lungs. Thomas relaxes in increments as they leave the house further and further behind.

“Do you think the others are okay?” He eventually asks, breaking nearly an hour of companionable silence.

“Yes,” Newt says because it’s what he wants to believe: Minho, Theresa, Winston, Frypan and the others all safe and happy with their families, stepping boldly into their new lives.

“I can’t stop thinking about them,” Thomas says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. They’re both wearing John’s spares. He inhales a wet breath. “I miss them.”

Newt does, too. He misses the warmth of their presence, the hum of their minds. They had been a family, in their own strange way, and the doctors hadn’t even let them say goodbye to each other—just spouted some rubbish about all of them needing to regain their memories and reintegrate into society without “disruptive influences.”

“They’re all strong,” he tells Thomas. “They’ll make it.”

Thomas nods, gaze somewhere far away.

They walk further, deeper into the forest. The pale moonlight casts long shadows and Newt stubbornly refuses to see monsters hiding in them. There is only the usual forest life—an owl hooting in the tree above, mice scurrying through the underbrush, a fox darting through a stream. No Grievers.

“We should have brought knives,” Thomas murmurs, glancing around.

“Do you want to turn back?”  Newt asks and isn’t surprised when Thomas shakes his head.

“Just a thought for next time. Let’s go this way.”

They turn left and follow the stream as it meanders through the trees. Thomas still has things to say; Newt can sense them churning in the back of his mind and he waits patiently until Thomas is ready.

“I want to know why,” Thomas blurts a few minutes later. “This … this isn’t good enough.”

Thomas was always the most curious, the most persistent of them—this isn’t a surprise, either. “How? Ava Paige killed herself, so did her entire research team. Her work is destroyed.” Newt kicks a branch out of the way with his good leg. “This isn’t a film or a novel, Tommy. Sometimes there are no answers and you just have to live with it.” He glances at the stiff line of Thomas’s shoulders. “You just have to live.”

“You can’t honestly believe that was the end of it,” Thomas argues. “She’s cornered so she just offs herself? Just like that? She must have had … some kind of back up or something. This was her entire life. She wouldn’t let it be completely destroyed.”

“So it’s out there somewhere, fine. How do you propose we find it? If she did have some kind of back up, she probably buried it. We have no resources to even _begin_ looking.”

“Well, if we—”

“I don’t want to waste my life on Ava Paige!” Newt snaps, a little surprised at the force of his own frustration. “We have a chance to … to have something here, Tommy. Something good. We can’t just throw that away looking for answers that might not exist. I want to go to school. I want to have a _life._ I don’t want to go running after ghosts. Why can’t you just let this go?”

 “You said it yourself—our powers are dangerous. I wanted to ignore them, but what if we can’t? What if figuring out what Ava Paige did to us is the only way for us to _have_ a normal life?” Thomas’s face is open, earnest, and Newt can feel his frustration draining away.

He wipes a hand across his face and blows out a weary breath. Thomas is most likely right. Nothing was simple about Ava Paige’s life and so it stands to reason her death would be the same, but.

But…

“Then we cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? Right now we’re doing all right. Let’s just … have this. For a while? That’s your father back there. Don’t you want to get to know him?”

It’s a low blow and Thomas knows it, but he shakes his head in defeat. “Fine. You’re right." A tired, drawn out exhale. "You’re right.”

Newt sends a wave of gratitude and affection down the bond and gets a faint smile in response. “Want to go back?”

Thomas glances around. “Not yet?”

They’ve left the stream behind and are venturing further west when Newt feels it: a mind unlike any he’s ever encountered. It’s human, but _not._ There is something _animal_ , too, dark and feral and dangerous. He freezes, stunned by the power of it, and Thomas walks several paces before realizing he isn’t following.

“Newt?” He turns around with a puzzled frown.

Newt ignores him, reaching tentatively for the foreign presence. It’s getting closer, _fast,_ and he still can’t tell if it’s a man or a beast.

 _Or both,_ the fear whispers, conjuring images of the Gladers who had gone feral—their powers warping them into something monstrous and horrible.

Bloody hell, he should have brought a knife.

“ _Newt.”_ Thomas sounds worried and he’s dropped his shoulders, ready to attack or flee. “ _What’s wrong?”_

_Something’s coming._

Thomas’s eyes widen. _“Some **thing?”**_

Before Newt can respond a shadow materializes in the trees to their left, tall and broad. Newt backs up a step—the roar of the beast almost overwhelming.

But it’s a man that enters the clearing—young, only a few years older than them, and handsome. His sharp green eyes narrow at them and his scowl is hidden behind a dark beard. Newt can sense his anger at them, his irritation at their intrusion, along with the beast nestled in the back of his mind, still roaring.

“What are you doing?” The man snaps. “This is private property.”


	5. in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I honestly never thought I would write for this story again. And then I saw The Death Cure. And here we are. Thank you all for your endless patience. 
> 
> (Also, I know that Sheriff Stilinski's first name is now officially Noah, but I didn't really want to go back and change it - plus he doesn't look like a Noah to me, sorry - so he will remain John for this fic.)

“What are you doing here? This is private property.”

Thomas blinks in surprise at the guy that’s literally just materialized out of the trees. Is it normal for people to go traipsing around in the woods in leather jackets at four a.m.? Somehow, he doubts it.

He also doesn’t like the hostility radiating off the dude in waves, or the fact that Newt’s gone all tense and wide-eyed next to him.

“Sorry,” he says, slipping into the Calm Voice he always used on new Gladers. “We didn’t realize.”

The man frowns, furrowing his already impressive eyebrows low on his forehead. In the wan moonlight, he looks a lot less human and a lot more like the arrivals that went feral. All teeth and rage.

Fuck, Thomas really should have brought a knife.

“We’ll leave,” he continues, holding out his hands in a placating gesture and taking a step back. His heart’s pounding so hard in his chest, he’s pretty sure he can feel against his ribcage.

The power in his veins hums in response to the fear and the pebbles around his shoes tremble. Newt is frozen in place, still staring like the guy has three heads instead of massive eyebrows and a ridiculous leather jacket. Thomas tugs on his sleeve.

“See, we’re leaving, okay?”

“Good,” the man grunts and crosses his arms, clearly intending to make sure they actually go.

All right, then.

 _“C’mon,_ ” Thomas sends down the link, tugging on Newt’s sleeve again.

Newt finally unfreezes and follows him, allowing Thomas to lead him back towards the stream. The guy’s eyes bore into their backs as they cross it and a quick look over Thomas's shoulder confirms that yep, he’s still totally standing there. Glaring.

Weird.

“People in this town, huh?” he says to Newt when they’re finally a safe distance away. “And I thought the maze was strange.”

“Yeah,” Newt says, still sounding distracted.

Worry flares up. “Hey, you okay?”

Newt shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it, and offers a wavering, unconvincing smile. “I’m fine, Tommy.”

He isn’t, but Thomas has learned to pick his battles. Newt is as stubborn and unmovable as iron when he wants to be, and now he clearly wants to be.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “Just …” _we don’t keep secrets._ It’s always been a rule, ever since practically day one after Alby died. They’re in this together, beginning to bitter end, and they don’t keep secrets. He shouldn’t have to remind Newt of that.

And sure enough, Newt softens. “I thought I sensed something, but I was wrong. That’s all.” He rubs his temple, a grimace stealing across his face. “Not the first time it’s happened.”

No, it isn’t. Newt’s ability is as unpredictable as any of theirs were. Some days, Thomas could lift boulders with his mind. Other days, he could barely get pebbles to shift. But it’s still rare. Newt’s always had a precision that a lot of the other Gladers lacked, Thomas included.

But the house is coming into view and soon the sky will be lightening with the first signs of dawn. Now isn’t the time to get into an argument.

“Okay,” he says again, reaching out to squeeze Newt’s shoulder. “Just making sure.”

“I know,” Newt says, quiet. “I know, Tommy.”

And that’s that.

They climb back up to the second story window in silence—Thomas pulling Newt up after him, trying to ignore a familiar stab of guilt at the way Newt’s face contorts in pain from the strain on his leg. The LCB back in Arizona couldn’t do anything, apparently. The wound was too old and the damage too permanent, which Thomas thought was bullshit. If they couldn’t even treat a leg injury with their fancy equipment and endless clipboards, how could they hope to fix anything else?

Really, all those tests were just a colossal waste of everyone’s time.

“Well,” Newt says when they’re finally back inside. “Let’s … just try the front door … next time.”

“Deal,” Thomas agrees, flopping onto the bed next to him. “And look, we snuck out! Isn’t that a normal teenager thing?”

Newt snorts into the pillow and shifts to pull the covers over them.

Thomas doesn’t expect to fall asleep, still too wired by the walk and Creepy Leather Jacket Guy in the woods, but his eyes are suddenly heavy and he’s out between one breath and the next.

_ _

He wakes with his usual jolt, snapping instantly to awareness. The sun’s streaming full and bright through the window now and someone’s knocking on the door.

“It’s John,” Newt murmurs before Thomas can tense too much. He’s still got his face smushed into the pillow, half-asleep.

A glance at the clock confirms that, holy shit, it’s almost two p.m..

John knocks again. “Stiles?”

“Yeah,” he calls back, wiping a hand over his face and climbing out of bed.

They fell asleep in their clothes, old habits, and he smooths down the wrinkles in his shirt as best he can before he opens the door.

“Sorry,” John says when he notices Thomas’ rumbled appearance and Newt still crashed out on the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” he replies, still off balance.

Two fucking p.m. They’ve slept all morning and he can’t remember the last time that happened.

“I was thinking we could go shopping,” John continues, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks off-balance, too, though Thomas doesn’t blame him for that.

How do you deal with your own son not remembering you?

“If you boys are up for it, that is. We need to get you some more clothes, other supplies. I’m supposed to set up an appointment with the school administration this week, too. So we can get your assessments done and find a tutor, if need be. But that can wait. One thing at a time, right?”

He only understands about half of that, but it sounds like more tests.

Great.

“Yeah,” he says. “One thing at a time. I’ll wake Newt up.”

John nods. “I’ll make.” He glances at the clock and then shrugs. “A very late breakfast.”

“Sounds good.”

There is a long, very awkward pause, before John nods again and heads back downstairs. Thomas closes the door and fights the urge to bang his head against it. Repeatedly.

At least they’re both terrible at this. That’s a small comfort.

“What did John want?” Newt asks, finally sitting up.

“To take us clothes shopping.” Thomas sinks back down on the bed with a sigh.

“Oh.” Newt frowns and for a moment they silently commiserate how much of an ordeal the last trip was. Now they’re supposed to pick out a whole wardrobe? What do teenagers even wear?

“Guess we might as well get it over with, right?”

Newt sighs and wipes a hand over his face. The cut is still there, under his eye, slowly fading from angry red to white. Thomas tries not to think about the scars they’ve accumulated, tries not to stare at them in the mirror, but it’s hard. They’ll never be normal teenagers—not when they pretty much look liked battle-hardened soldiers even at a first glance—and he hates that reminder. Hates even more the way John looks at the scars, with this weird combination of sorrow and rage.

“Guess we might,” Newt agrees and stands up.

Then he catches sight of the clock and his eyes widen. “Bloody hell, is it really after two p.m.?”

“Yep. Guess we needed the sleep.”

Newt shakes his head in amazement, but doesn’t comment any further. They each change into a new pair of clothes—more of John’s that are two sizes too big on him and probably three on Newt, who has to roll the sleeves up to his elbows to keep them from slipping down over his hands and cinch the belt as tight as it will go.

“I think I might need to gain some weight,” Newt grumbles, staring down at himself.

Thomas bites his lip to hide an amused smile. “Well you do kinda disappear if you turn sideways.”

Newt throws a pillow at his head and for a second, things are almost normal.

_ _

 

Breakfast is something called “Eggo Waffles” which apparently come frozen and are then toasted. Food is weird as shit, Thomas has decided. Plus, the waffles are a little bland. Nothing near as bad as some of the stuff they tried in the maze, but still several steps down from the flavor explosion that was pizza.

He’s not about to complain, though. Don’t Upset John is high on his list of priorities right now.

Only John is frowning at him, so maybe he’s already failed.

“You don’t want syrup?”

He swallows another bite of waffle. “Syrup?”

John nods to the container of brown sap stuff sitting in the middle of the table. And look, it has syrup scrawled across the front.

“I thought that was tree sap,” Newt mutters.

John looks amused. “It kind of is. But it’s safe to eat.”

Ooookaaay. Food is _super_ weird.

He still gamely reaches for the bottle and pours some of the syrup on the waffle. It looks disgusting, but he trusts John.

And holy _shit,_ it’s sweet. He coughs around the first bite, not prepared for the burst of pure sugar that coats his mouth. Next to him, Newt does the same and reaches for the bottle.

“So … this is pretty much distilled sugar?” he asks once he’s recovered.

“Pretty much,” John confirms, with the beginnings of a sheepish expression.

“And you _eat_ it?” Thomas asks, wiping his mouth.

“Okay,” John says, taking the bottle from Newt. “That’s a no to the syrup, then.”

Yeah, definite no. He never thought, in his life, that he would miss Frypan’s stew but he sure as hell does now.

“Sorry,” Newt offers, ever polite, but John just waves a dismissive hand.

“It’s fine. Though … can I ask … what did you eat in the, uh, in the maze?”

Once again, Newt jumps in and Thomas sends a wave of gratitude down the bond. He doesn’t know why it’s so hard to talk about the maze with John. Maybe that expression again—all that grief and rage on his behalf. He isn’t used to it. To someone wanting to protect him.

To being someone’s kid.

“Mostly whatever we could grow ourselves. Vegetables, some fruit, lots of herbs. A box came up once a month with other supplies—meat and flour and whatnot. Basic things.”

“So it really was like the damn apocalypse,” John mutters and takes a swig of his coffee.

He does that a lot, in reaction to things. Thomas is starting to think it’s a comfort gesture. There was a lot of coffee in the hospital, too, so maybe the whole drink is a comfort gesture.

“Pretty much,” Newt agrees. “None of us were aware of what the world was like outside the maze.”

“Yeah,” Thomas adds. “And what they did tell us suggested it had ended.”

“Imagine our surprise,” Newt concludes, dry, and John’s mouth actually twitches up in a smile.

It makes him look younger.

“Yeah, pretty sure there was a lot of surprise all around, kid.”

 _No shit,_ Thomas thinks and focuses on finishing his sugar death trap disguised as a waffle. He’s also noticed that a lot of John’s cupboards are empty, as well as the fridge. Like he hasn’t been taking care of himself, and that makes Thomas’ gut twist in a way he can’t explain. He has the sudden, weird urge to go out and buy a shit ton of vegetables.

“Well,” John says once they’ve finished eating. “Want to brave the store?”

No. Not even a little bit. But they don’t have much of a choice.

“Yep,” he says, injecting as much false confidence into his voice as possible. “Bring it on.”

They survived a fucking maze of death for three years. They survived _five_ years in the hands of a madwoman and her merry band of evil scientists. A store should be a walk in the park.

_ _

Half an hour later, he’s regretting his optimism.

There are so many _clothes._ Racks and racks and racks of them. An ocean of clothes. A rainbow eyesore jungle of clothes. How the hell is he supposed to _pick?_

Most of the shirts continue to have symbols on them he doesn’t understand. Half of them are so violently bright that it’d be the equivalent of painting a giant target on his back. This shade of yellow alone would probably stop traffic.

He takes a deep breath, grateful that John once again opted to give them space. Newt is a few feet away, staring a rack of sweaters like he expects them to spontaneously start speaking and offer advice, but there’s no crippling panic down the bond so far.

Right. He can totally do this. Just don’t think about it too much.

He goes down the rack and grabs a bunch of shirts at random, going for solid colors that aren’t going to blind anyone.

Okay, there. Now for sweaters.

He pauses on the way, though, next to a rack of plaid shirts. He picked out one like this in Arizona, even though the pattern hurts his eyes a bit. It’s different from anything they were allowed in the maze, so screw it. He dumps four more of those on top of his pile and then continues towards the jackets.

Four soft sweaters with hoods later and he’s starting to feel somewhat confident again.

Only, there is a woman three racks over openly staring at him. Like, that is some major staring. She’s not even being subtle.

His hackles raise immediately.

“ _Newt.”_

Newt materializes a moment later, holding his own pile of clothes and wearing a carefully neutral expression.

“What is it?” he whispers.

Thomas nods subtly to Staring Woman. Newt’s brow furrows.

“Think she’s one of Ava Paige’s people?”

Fuck, he wishes he had a weapon. He really needs to start carrying one around again. John won’t miss a knife or a corkscrew, probably.

“I don’t know,” Newt murmurs. “I don’t think they’d be quite this obvious, do you?”

It’s true, Staring Woman is exhibiting zero subtly, but still. Thomas is five seconds from dropping his clothes and making a run for it. And now, shit, she’s coming over here. Shit, shit, shit.

He unconsciously takes a half a step in front of Newt, ignoring Newt’s answering glare, but Staring Woman looks just as nervous as he is.

“Stiles?” she says, and her voice cracks on his name. “Is that you?”

Oh.

She’s not staring because she’s part of Ava Paige’s cult. She’s staring because, according to this town, Stiles Stilinski has come back from the dead. He feels stupid but somehow, he didn’t anticipate this.

“Oh my god,” the woman continues and now her dark eyes have a watery sheen to them.

Shit, a random stranger is about to start crying all over him. Now he wants to run again.

“Uh,” he offers with great intelligence. “I’m sorry … do I know you?”

Surprise flickers across the woman’s face, suggesting that yes, Stiles at least is supposed to know her. “Oh.” She says, recovering quickly. “I’m sorry … I mean John said, but I didn’t think…”

And speaking of John, here he is, approaching at a brisk walk.

“Melissa,” he says in a carefully calm tone that sounds a lot like the one Thomas always uses, “can I talk to you for a second?”

He leads her off by the arm, leaving Newt and Thomas standing there like a pair of idiots.

“Well,” Newt says eventually, as they watch John and Melissa converse in urgent-looking whispers. “Guess you’re famous, Tommy.”

He doesn’t want to be. He wants to get through this strange, hellish adjustment period in peace, but something tells him that school is going to be even worse.

“Great,” he mutters and plucks another hooded sweatshirt off the rack. This one has stripes on it, which he can’t decide if he likes or not, but whatever. It’s going in the pile.

Newt squeezes his shoulder.

_ _

 

Eventually, once they’ve moved on to pants, John returns and apologizes.

“I didn’t realize she was going to be here.”

“Who is she?” Thomas asks, adding another pair of jeans to his now fairly-massive pile.

He’s trying not to be alarmed by how many clothes he's accumulated, and fighting the urge to go and put half of them back immediately. It seems like such a waste, but according to John teenagers have a lot of clothes and he should pick out as much as possible.

And he still trusts John. Even after the syrup incident this morning.

“Melissa McCall,” John says with a sigh. “Scott’s mother.”

Oh. That’s probably childhood-friend-Scott. Put-up-missing-posters-and-tried-to-find-him-for-months-Scott.

Shit.

“I tried to explain more to her,” John continues. “Told her not to take it personally. You can’t even remember your old man.” He winces immediately. “That was a joke.”

Thomas appreciates John’s attempt at levity. Even if it falls pretty flat. “It’s okay, I can’t even remember my own name.”

And that probably fell even flatter, but John manages a smile that’s only _slightly_ strained.

“Right. Well. Let’s finish up here and head back, okay?”

Thomas nods eagerly. That’s the greatest suggestion John’s made all day.

_ _

“I don’t know how we’re possibly going to wear all this,” Newt says back at the house, as they load their clothes in various dresser drawers and on the rail in the closet. “I wore the same shirt for three years and now I have to choose a different one every morning?”

It definitely sounds stressful and he’s not looking forward to it. But the philosophy of “Don’t Think About It” seems to be working so far and he’s going to stick with that.

“I guess clothes are important to people,” he says. “Especially teenagers, from the sound of it.”

Newt huffs and shakes his head.

Thomas’ own fingers are starting to twitch just thinking about dealing with classes and school and social etiquette. In the maze, the established rules made sense. Were pretty easy to follow, too. Out here? God, he doesn’t even know where to start.

All these people probably knew Stiles Stilinski, too, which makes it even worse.

 _One thing at a time._ That’s what John said. Just take it one thing at a time. And today they conquered clothes shopping.

“At least these clothes fit properly,” Newt says, running his hand over his new dark green shirt.

“And we won’t have to stitch them up if they rip.”

A smile flickers in the corner of Newt’s mouth. “And they don’t make us look like we’re in some kind of cult.”

“And we won’t have to wash them by hand.”

“And they won’t get dirty so easily.”

“And our shoes won’t be falling apart.”

“Or our trousers.”

“Plus, pizza’s pretty good.”

“And waffles.”

“Even though syrup’s disgusting.”

“Completely.”

They’re both grinning at each other now and something has loosened a little in Thomas’ chest. “Okay, new deal: one positive thing. Every day.”

“I think I can manage that,” Newt agrees. “After all—”

He cuts off abruptly, head whipping to face the door.

“Newt,” Thomas says in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s here,” Newt murmurs, distracted. “Something.”

Just like he said in the woods. Some _thing._

“What do you mean? What’s here?”

But Newt is pushing past him towards the hallway Thomas follows close behind, pausing to grab the scissors they’ve been using to cut tags off clothes.

Downstairs is … a kid. About their age, probably. Arguing with John.

“…please, sheriff. I just wanted to say hi. I haven’t seen him in _five years_ and—”

“And I’m telling you that isn’t a good idea right now.”

Newt has paused at the bottom of the stairs, head cocked to the side like he’s trying to sort out a puzzle.

“Strange. I … must have been wrong again.”

“What did you sense?” Thomas whispers back, but before Newt can answer, the kid’s head whips around and his eyes blow wide.

And then the kid is moving. Faster than Thomas can raise the scissors in defense. Arms wrap around him and a chest slams into his. It takes him way too long to realize that a) the kid is hugging him and b) the kid is crying into his shoulder.

Also c) the kid is talking a mile a minute.

“Oh my god, Stiles, it really is you I can’t believe it, oh my God, I think you’re taller than me now are you taller than me now? Never mind, I’m just so glad you’re alive we looked _everywhere_ for you and there was even talk about holding you a funeral but I always knew you were alive like in my bones, but you actually made it back to us that’s _amazing…”_  

 _Scott,_ Thomas guesses.

“Scott,” Thomas says.

Sure enough, the kid pulls back, staring up at him with those huge brown eyes. “Stiles?”

The shoulder of Thomas’ shirt is wet and he isn’t sure why, but his chest is aching.

“I don’t remember you,” he says before Scott can get any false hope. “I don’t remember anything.”

Scott shakes his head. “I don’t care. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Another crushing hug. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

Thomas takes a deep breath and manages to lift an arm to hug Scott back, figuring it’s probably the least he can do for his once childhood best friend.

“Me too.”

Scott steps back again, wiping at his eyes. Finally, his gaze moves past Thomas to Newt, still frozen by the stairs. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you.”

Newt shakes himself out of his stupor and holds out a hand. “Newt.”

Scott takes this in stride—maybe practice from having a best friend called Stiles for most of his childhood—and reaches out to shake Newt’s hand.

“Nice accent.”

“British,” Newt says. “Or so I’m told.”

Scott huffs a laugh at that and Thomas relaxes a fraction. Anyone that can get behind their dark, weird sense of humor earns several points in his book.

“I’m sorry I barged in,” Scott says with a sheepish look in John’s direction. “But I had to see you.”

Well, Thomas has no idea what to do with that. With all these people who _missed_ him.

Missed Stiles.

“It’s okay,” he says and hopes none of the inner turmoil shows on his face. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

Scott grins, crooked, and claps him on the shoulder. The gesture feels familiar, an echo of something lost. “Me too. I’ll be around again. We’ve got a _lot_ of catching up to do.”

Ha, no shit.

“Nice to meet you, Newt.”

And then he’s gone, closing the door behind him. A stunned silence settles in his wake, finally broken by John’s sigh.

“I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep him away forever.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas insists. It’s unsettling, but he appreciates these glimpses into Stiles’ life.

_Look at all the things that were taken from you._

He puts a shaking hand over his heart. “It’s fine.”

John, he suspects, sees right through him. Newt _definitely_ does. But neither of them says anything.

“You kids want some hot chocolate?” John asks.

“What’s hot chocolate?” Newt asks.

John shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I’ll make some. Come through to living room when you’re ready.”

Once they’re alone, Thomas turns to Newt. “What did you think you sensed?”

Newt frowns. “An animal.”

“What? What kind of animal?”

“I don’t know.” Newt runs an agitated hand through his hair. “But … it felt like when someone went feral, Tommy.” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. “My mind must be playing tricks on me.”

“PTSD,” Thomas murmurs, though that doesn’t feel completely right. Fucked up brains he gets. Fucked up powers? That’s a whole different story.

“Yeah,” Newt says, latching onto that explanation like a drowning man finding a life raft. “Yeah that’s probably it.”

Knowing them, and their shitty, shitty luck, it probably isn’t, but they’ve had enough excitement for one day. Right now, he’s happy to sink onto John’s old, comfortable couch and accept a steaming mug of what he’s informed is hot chocolate.

It also looks disgusting. Like someone’s liquefied dirt.

“What are the floating white things?”

“Marshmallows.”

“Come again?”

“Just try it,” John insists.

He braces himself and takes a sip. It’s very sweet, too, though not as bad as the syrup. And it doesn’t have the bizarre soothing quality, but it’s good.

“I like it,” he announces.

Newt hums in agreement, already taking another large sip. John smiles like Thomas has given him a gift and squeezes his shoulder.

Right, Thomas decides, it hasn’t been a bad day. In spite of all the surprises.

_ _

 

In bed, with the sun long set and the room draped in shadows, he debriefs with Newt. Which is really more trying to talk through the swirling vortex of emotions he keeps experiencing with someone who has even a small hope of understanding.

“I feel bad,” he whispers to the ceiling. “That I can’t remember.”

“It’s hardly our fault, Tommy.”

“I know, but…”

“You can’t give them back Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

Newt shifts in the bed to rest their heads together. “It’s going to take time, I think. Figuring out who we are now. Without the maze.”

“I actually miss it sometimes,” Thomas says. “How fucked up is that?”

“I miss it, too,” Newt admits, which actually does quiet the vortex a little. “Or, well, the Glade at least. The others. Life was … simple, in a lot of ways.”

He hums in agreement. “Definitely simpler than here. Creepy guys in the woods, long lost best friends, weird food...”

“People that feel like animals,” Newt murmurs.

“You think there’s something to that?” Thomas asks, surprised Newt is bringing it up again so soon.

Newt sighs, sharp and frustrated. “I don’t know what to think. Just that we need to be careful.”

Thomas reaches under the pillow to brush against the scissors he’s stored there. “Yeah. Agreed.”


	6. out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm getting a little experimental for the POV with this one. If people like it, this is the format John's POV will stay in from now on. If not, I'll change it back to the way it was before. 
> 
> Enjoy!

You still think you’re dreaming. Every night, you go to sleep convinced that you’ll wake up to an empty, silent house - the same one you’ve been avoiding as much as possible for the last five years. But every morning, you come downstairs to find your son sitting at the kitchen table, just like he used to. 

He’s quieter now, with dark bags under his eyes that never seem to fade, but he’s starting to relax in increments. To complain about syrup and try to bargain for a second or third cup of coffee. To bicker with Newt (who remains a mystery to you, even more than your son) and even crack a rare smile now and then. 

It’s like witnessing a miracle in real time. 

Today, he’s poking his spoon hesitantly into a bowl of cornflakes, but you think that’s got more to do with the announcement that you’re taking him to register at the school than the quality of the cereal. Newt is looking just as nervous, though he’s managed to get through most of the cornflakes. 

“Look,” you say, wishing for the hundredth, the thousandth time, that you were better at this. Claudia was the heart of your family, always knew the right words to say in any situation. “If you don’t feel ready, I’m sure we can get you set up on a home study program for the rest of the semester…” 

“No,” Stiles says, looking up with eyes just as fierce as they were when he was six years old and trying to learn how to ride a bike for the first time. “We’re ready.” 

They’re very obviously not, judging by the tense set of their shoulders, but you’re not going to push them on it. Autonomy is good, all the pamphlets they gave you say - let them feel like they have control over aspects of their life. And besides, you know from experience that your kid isn’t going to be moved once he’s made his mind up about something. 

(That’s another thing that hasn’t changed. You’ve started a list and you run it through your head every time the fact that he doesn’t remember you gets to be too much: stubborn, sarcastic, witty, smart, Claudia’s eyes, your smile, still your kid, still your kid, still your kid…) 

“Okay,” you say now, taking a seat across from him at the table. “Finish your cereal, then.” 

He grimaces, but gamely shoves a spoonful of soggy cornflakes into his mouth, and you bite the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. Newt has already finished and, to your surprise, gets up to wash his bowl in the sink, grabbing yours on the way. 

He’s something of a mother hen, you think. Used to looking out for others. Used to looking out for your son, especially. You’re not sure exactly what they are to each other, but the bond runs deep and wide and strong, forged in fire. It emerges in flickers: in the squeeze to Stiles’ shoulder on the way to the sink, in the shift of Stiles’ head to keep Newt in his line of sight, in glance Newt throws his way - eyebrow arched in a clear  _ I’m fine, stop worrying -  _ and his sigh in return. 

You get it, somewhat. Remember coming back from Iraq feeling flayed to pieces and like the men you went with, fought with, and almost died with were your last, truly familiar thing. But you also had a soon-to-be wife waiting at home and a life from Before that you remembered and could gradually resume. 

This is a whole different ball game.  

“Ready?” you say to keep from thinking too much. 

(Thinking too much hasn’t ended well in the past five years.)

Stiles nods and stands, squaring his shoulders like he’s going to war. At the sink, Newt has finished with the dishes and is rolling his sleeves back down over thin arms that are just as scar-covered as your son’s. The cut under his eye is looking better, though, and he’s gained a little weight in the past week. You focus on that instead of your burning questions about the scars and the scissors you’re pretty sure have gone missing from the kitchen. 

Some things you’re better off not knowing. 

The drive to the school would be silent if not for the rattle of the Jeep around you. It’s a piece of junk, really, but resilient in a way you’ve always admired. You thought, once, that you would give it to Stiles when he was old enough. And after he went missing … well, this shit car has always been a symbol of hope. You needed to hold onto it because one day your son would come home and … 

You sneak a glance at him, curled up in the passenger seat. He used to sprawl everywhere, taking up an incredible amount of space for such a small thing - like his limbs had the ability to multiply. Now he’s got his legs drawn in close and his hands folded in his lap, almost unnaturally still. 

“Do you drive?” you ask, which is probably a stupid question. Which is why you asked it, really. Better to talk about stupid things. 

Stiles jolts and he drags his gaze away from the window to your face. “No? There weren’t any vehicles in the maze.” He pauses. “ _ Should  _ we know how to drive? Is that … is that a teenager thing?” 

A teenager thing. You almost want to laugh. 

“Yeah,” you say instead. “I’ll teach you.” A glance to Newt in the back seat. “Both of you.” 

(You can add it to the other list you’re compiling: get them set up in school, make sure they have enough to eat, see about finding a therapist, teach them to drive…. It’s an easier list than the one you're trying not to keep of all the things that are different and seemly irreparable. You’ve always preferred physical problems you can tackle.) 

Stiles sits up a little straighter. He’s always loved a challenge, your son. “Okay.” 

Newt looks far less enthusiastic, but he nods at you when you glance over your shoulder at him. You decide that you’ll let Stiles go first, no matter how much chaos that might cause. 

_ _ 

At the school, the guidance counselor - a woman who introduces herself as Ms. Marin Morrell - is all professional sympathy. You forwarded her the files for Stiles and Newt two days ago. Well, as much of them as you felt comfortable sharing with a stranger, that is, which wasn’t much. She got the basics: kidnapping, amnesia, likely PTSD, behind in school. She got copies of Stiles’ last academic records - from way back in sixth grade, goddamn - and a green card for Newt, specially procured by the Arizona facility. 

She doesn’t need to know about the screams you wake up to almost every night, or the alcohol mocking you from your cupboard, or the fact that Stiles and Newt, sitting straight-backed in plastic chairs, are terrified. 

Actually that one she can probably guess. 

But she’s a professional, so she doesn’t point it out. Just asks what they can remember ( _ nothing _ ); how they feel about starting school next week ( _ fine _ ); if there are any subjects they think they will do well in ( _ math and science _ ); and any subjects they’re nervous about ( _ everything else _ ). Then she announces that she wants to give them a quick assessment test, just to get a feel for their current knowledge level, and you’re asked to wait in the hall. 

You pace a line up and down the tile, hating the echo of your squeaking shoes bouncing off the lockers. There isn’t a clock on the wall, but you have a watch that you force yourself to stop glancing at every three seconds. 

(Ten minutes.  Twenty.)

You take a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs and fold your arms. Tell yourself to breathe. It’ll be fine. Your kid is smart and tough and has already survived more than you can imagine. He’s going to conquer this, too. 

(Thirty minutes.)

The door opens and Marin beckons you back inside the empty classroom. You take stock quickly: Stiles and Newt are stone-faced, but Stiles’ fingers tap a restless, anxious rhythm against the desk and Newt’s hand is curled into a tight fist against his leg. 

Ah, not good, then. 

“The gap in their knowledge is concerning,” Ms. Marin Morrell offers and manages to make it sound understanding instead of insulting. Stiles still flinches. “But they both show remarkable aptitude. I have no doubt they’ll be able to catch up fast.” 

“That’s good,” you say, though you aren’t surprised. 

“I’d still like to assign them a tutor.” 

Again, not surprised. 

“Sure. Another student?” 

Marin nods. “I’ll have someone by next week, don’t worry.” 

That’s honestly the least of your worries. Stiles hasn’t looked at you once so far and Newt's expression makes you think that he’s wishing his desk will suddenly morph into a monster and eat him whole. 

“Okay,” you say, wanting to get them both out of there and back to the relative safety of the house. 

Marin says she’ll get textbooks for them and the principal will notify their teachers. She’ll also email over a schedule in the next few days. 

“Great,” you say with a polite smile and herd the two silent boys towards the parking lot. 

Marin barely addressed them, you realize when you make it back to the Jeep, and you’re not sure if you should be insulted by that or not. Another small worry, you decide. Not worth time or energy right now. 

You’re expecting more crippling silence on the way home, but as soon as the Jeep starts, Stiles scrubs a hand over his face and mutters, “well that was a shitshow.” 

“Not completely,” Newt says, but the positive note in his voice rings hollow. 

“I got  _ two  _ questions right,” Stiles snaps. “It was a forty-five question test! And those two I  _ guessed on. _ ” 

“Good guessing, then,” you say, aiming for levity. Stiles glares at you, the same frustrated look as when you told him he couldn’t have a puppy for his fifth birthday. 

It cuts like a knife. 

“Not good enough,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest.  

You don’t want to have this conversation in a moving car, but life is rarely fair or generous. 

“Now look,” you start  as you reach back into the past, to the father you used to be. “You knew this would happen, right? You’ve had your  _ memories erased,  _ Stiles. None of this is your fault.” Stiles opens his mouth. “And it  _ doesn’t  _ make you stupid.” Snaps it closed again. 

Your fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel. “Hell, you’ve  _ always  _ been smart. You were running circles around me when you were  _ three. _ Faster than I could ever hope to keep up with.” You glance at him, at his scars and shadows and the fear in his eyes. “Somehow, I doubt that’s changed. So you’ll catch up, you’ll blow them all out of the damn water. You just gotta give it time, okay?” 

You glance at Newt in the rearview mirror, staring at you with wide eyes. “And I don’t know you, as well, Newt, but same goes for you. You don’t survive years in a crazy maze if you’re stupid.” 

“No,” Newt says slowly. “I suppose not.” 

Stiles blows out a long breath. You want to reach over and squeeze his shoulder. You want to tell him that you’re proud of him, of all he’s survived and the battles he’s won and the battles he’s fighting now, but you’re not sure either gesture would be welcome. So you settle for a smile that you hope conveys half the feelings currently clanging around in your chest. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” 

“You’re sure about that?” he asks, challenging. Scared. 

“No,” you say, honestly. “But I’ve got faith, kid. Which has worked out for me so far.”  He frowns, puzzled, and the smile stretches further across your face. “I got you back, didn’t I?” 

And well … he doesn’t have any counter arguments to  _ that _ . You’ve blindsided him. 

(You’re kinda proud about that.)

_ _ 

Scott McCall shows up bright and early Sunday morning, and really you were a fool to think that you’d be able to keep him away. 

It’s touching, how deeply he still cares about your son, but he also has the energy level of an overexcited puppy and you haven’t had coffee yet. So you let him in with a sigh and sick him on Stiles. Your kid can handle it, you’re sure, even if he shoots you a look of deep betrayal when Scott practically skids into the kitchen. 

“I heard you’re coming back to school!” Scott says. You don’t bother wondering  _ how  _ he knows. Everyone’s a gossip in Beacon Hills. 

“Yes,” Stiles says slowly and God, it’s kind of hilarious, watching Scott run circles around Stiles instead of the other way around. 

“That’s awesome!” Scott dumps his bag in an empty chair and takes a seat, reaching for the few pieces of bacon left on the plate. “Do you have your schedule yet?” 

“No.” 

“Well you’re both probably gonna be in the same classes as me. Want a crash course?” 

Stiles blinks. 

“We’re quite behind,” Newt jumps in, far more awake and composed. “We won’t be able to catch up in a day.” 

“That’s fine.” Scott’s already unpacking his textbooks. “Like I said, we’ll be in all the same classes so I can at least get you guys started, right?” 

“I…” Stiles tries. A history textbook lands in front of him with a thud. “Sure.” 

You use your coffee mug as a shield to hide your smirk and leave them to it. The house desperately needs a cleaning and you have over a month’s worth of case files in your office that you need to catch up on. They should be fine for a few hours, you figure. 

When you check back in on them, though, Newt has his head in his hands and Stiles looks ready to murder someone. Namely Scott. 

“For the last time,” he says through gritted teeth. “I have  _ amnesia,  _ I’m not  _ five.”  _

“I know!” Scott insists defensively. “I’m just trying make sure we have all the basics covered!” 

“I know what a state is!” Stiles explodes. “And a country!” 

Oh boy. 

“Okay! Okay.” Scott raises his hands in surrender. “We can move on, then.” 

“Please,” Newt says into his hands. 

“Okay, so now that we’ve established what a country is,” Stiles’ eye twitches, “we can talk about the Revolutionary War, which was fought to establish  _ this  _ country. America.” 

“Scott,” Stile says in complete and total exasperation. 

“What?” 

“Not. Five.” 

“I just want to make sure you understand!” 

“I do!” Stile insists. “From 1775 to 1783, the thirteen American colonies fought a war to free themselves from British rule. The first two battles were Lexington and Concord, which took place in Massachusetts. In July of 1776, the Second Continental Congress signed the Declaration of Independence, turning the thirteen colonies into sovereign states - which, I am wondering why they waited so long since they’d been at war for over a year and that kind of already proved their point of wanting to be independent, but whatever…” 

Scott gapes and you have to hide another grin. Yep, your kid’s still got it. “How … how do you know all that?” 

“I read it,” Stiles says and points to the book between them. “In your textbook.” 

Scott blinks. “Oh.” 

You decide that an intervention is probably necessary. “Okay, I think that’s enough studying for today.” Stiles slumps in relief and Newt sighs, still muffled. “Scott, shouldn’t you be heading home? I’m sure you’ve got studying of your own to do.” 

Scott blinks again. “Oh, right.” He gathers up the textbooks. “I can probably come back tomorrow, if you want?” 

Stiles opens his mouth, possibly to scream, and you jump in again. “We’ll see. Thanks, Scott.” 

“Any time, Sheriff. Uh … see you around, Stiles. Newt.” 

“See you around,” Stiles manages, actually sounding close to polite. 

Newt finally drops his hands. “Yes. Thank you … for today.” And that isn’t sincere, at all, but Scott still grins. 

“Sure! Bye!” 

You walk him to the front door and predictably, he hesitates on the porch. He may not be as lightning-fast as your son, but Scott McCall is far from stupid. “Uh, Sheriff, is he gonna be okay?” 

“Stiles?” 

“Yeah.” Scott fidgets with the strap of his backpack. “Both of them.” 

“I don’t know.” 

He nods, like he was expecting this answer. “Is there anything I can do?” 

You glance back into the kitchen where Stiles is conversing quietly with Newt. He’s still obviously frustrated, but the hunted look he’s been wearing for the past week and a half has faded a little from his eyes. 

“I think just keep doing what you’re doing. You know how stubborn he can be.” 

Scott’s mouth quirks in a fond smile. “Yeah, I do. Later, Sheriff.” 

And with that, he’s gone, bounding toward his beat-up car. 

He’s a good kid, and you’re glad, right now, that he’s on your team. 

_ _ 

Some of these case files have to be lying. A string of bizarre and highly violent animal attacks, by something that apparently has the ability to walk on hind legs; a bisected body of a young woman found buried in the woods and her brother arrested for her murder only to be released because it was a freaking  _ animal  _ that cut her in half; Lydia Martin attacked and injured on the lacrosse field after a school dance… 

“Jesus.” 

Weird things have happened in this town before, things you couldn’t explain, but nothing like this. 

You might need a drink. 

You’ve decided to get up to pour yourself a shot of whiskey (or several) when the floorboards creak in the front hall and a familiar silhouette appears in the doorway to the living room. 

“Newt,” you say, willing your heart to stop pounding. Somehow, you’re still not used to other people being in the house, especially when they move like damn ghosts. 

“Hi,” Newt says, hesitant. He’s still nervous around you, still that cornered cat, but you’re hoping that will change, given enough time. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…” 

“It’s fine.” This is probably better than drinking yourself into a stupor, anyway. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

Newt shakes his head. You can’t really see his expression in the dim light, but his posture is tense. “I was going to make tea.” His voice cracks, but he rallies himself quickly. “Would you like some?” 

“Sure.” 

You follow him into the kitchen, pulled along by a half-forgotten fatherly instinct, and watch as he pulls mugs down from the cupboard. His hands are shaking, you realize, right before one of the mugs slips. You dart forward and manage to catch it before it crashes onto the floor. 

He flinches. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, kid. How about I make the tea, though?” 

“That would probably be wise,” he concedes and shuffles off to fold himself into a chair at the kitchen table. 

It’s been years since you’ve made tea, but Claudia used to drink it by the bucket so you let muscle memory guide you. And look at that - in a pretty impressive amount of time, and with no mess, you’re setting a steaming mug in front of Newt. 

“Thanks,” he says, uncurling a little so that he can pull the mug closer to him. 

You squeeze his shoulder and take a seat across from him, wondering if this going to become a routine. At some point, you should probably suggest moving to the sofa - these old chairs are murder on your back. 

“Stiles still asleep?” 

Newt glances up at the ceiling, like he’s actually checking. “Yes.” 

“Nightmares?” 

Newt shrugs. “Something like that.” He glances over at the mess of papers scattered across the table in the living room. “What’re you working on?” 

Ah, not talking about the nightmares, then. 

“I’m just trying to catch up with some cases that happened while I was gone.” 

“Right,” Newt says slowly. “You’re the sheriff.” 

“Yeah.” You lean a little closer. “I’m going to assume you know what that means.” 

Newt actually huffs what you think is the start of a laugh. “I do.” You take a companionable sip of tea. “Is it hard … being the sheriff?” 

You’d actually rather not think about all those case files right now, or Lydia Martin missing in the woods for two days, so you settle for an evasive, “it has its moments.” 

Newt nods. A pregnant pause while you both try to figure out what to say. Then, to your surprise, Newt smiles. “You were right, you know. About Tom-Stiles. He’s faster than anyone.” 

“Yeah?” 

Newt traces his fingers around the rim of his mug. “Yeah. We … we didn’t all enter the maze at once, did you know that?” 

You didn’t. 

“They sent us up one at a time. There was this … we called it the Box. It came up from somewhere underground every month like clockwork, brought supplies and a new kid. I was before Tommy, probably by about six months. When we pulled him out …” Another smile. “Well, he just took off. I’d never seen anyone run that fast. Right up until he faceplanted.” 

You laugh, even though your chest is aching. “Yeah, that sounds like Stiles.” It’s good, knowing that even in the middle of a horrific situation, some things about your son stayed the same. 

“He was full of questions,” Newt continues. “Most kids freak out. Cry, scream, yell. But Tomm-sorry, Stiles...” 

“You can call him whatever the hell you want, kid,” you offer. “Pretty sure he answers more to Thomas right now, anyway.” 

“Right,” Newt says. “Tommy just wanted information. Who were we, why were we trapped there, what was outside the walls.  _ Everyone  _ was scared of what might be beyond the Glade, but not Tommy. Within two days he was already trying to come up with escape plans, already wanting to go out and run the maze.” Newt’s hands tighten against the mug. “He … he gave us all hope, you know? After Alby - our leader - after he died, Tommy stepped up to take his place, to keep everything from falling apart. I knew, then, that if anyone could get us out, it was him. I would have followed him anywhere.” 

He laughs again, a little self-deprecating, and glances around the kitchen. “I  _ did  _ follow him anywhere. I don’t think any of us would be alive if not for him.” 

Damn. You’re not sure what to do with how full your chest feels, or the lump coalescing in the back of your throat. Look at your kid. 

“You should be proud of him,” Newt says. 

“I am,” you assure him. Your voice breaks in the middle of the words and you cough, blinking back the tears stinging at your eyes. Even though you never, ever wanted him to go through something like this - to know violence and pain and scars and even more death - you don’t think you’ve ever said anything truer. “I am.” 

“Good.” Newt stares down into his tea, shoulders hunching, and that fatherly instinct rears its head again. 

“Of both of you,” you add and Newt glances up, startled. “Because, look, my son is very smart, but at times capable of breathtaking stupidity.” Newt bites his lip to hide a smile, his expression clear that he knows  _ exactly  _ what you’re talking about. Good to know that’s another thing that hasn’t changed. “So something tells me he wouldn’t have lasted a week without you to rein him in.” 

“True,” Newt agrees. “I do what I can.” 

You raise your mug in a salute. “And I thank you for that. I’m glad you’re here, kid.” 

Newt blinks, eyes shining. “Me too. I-” He freezes, expression morphing into shock and then terror. “Tommy.” 

A second later, screams echo through the house. 

You leap from the table, but Newt is ahead of you, already scrambling up the stairs. By the time you make it to Stiles’ door, Newt is on the bed, arms wrapped around Stiles as he thrashes. You linger on the threshold, feet stuck to the carpet because you could swear that the paperclips on the desk are … floating? 

“Tommy!” Newt says, dragging Stiles closer. “Tommy, wake up!” 

Stiles jerks and gasps, eyes opening. You blink and, no, the paperclips are back to normal, scattered across the desk.  You must be more tired than you thought. And besides, you have more pressing concerns: your son is sobbing, loud and visceral - face pressed into Newt’s neck. 

“It’s okay,” Newt’s saying, rocking back and forth. “I’ve got you, Tommy. I’ve got you.” 

You’re still frozen, aching to comfort your son but knowing that there’s nothing you can do, no help from you that he’ll accept. Just like when Claudia… 

No. Don’t go there right now. 

Newt has his cheek pressed to the top of Stiles’ head, and Stiles’ gut-wrenching sobs are slowly dying down. “It’s gonna be okay, Tommy. I’ve got you. It’s gonna be okay.” 

More tea might be good, you decide. A lot more tea. 

_ _ 

You manage to keep Scott at bay for the rest of the week and just like that it’s Monday again and Stiles and Newt are standing at the front door with new backpacks and near matching expressions of terror. 

“Last chance,” you say through your own emotions. “Sure you wanna do this?” 

They both nod without any hesitation. 

You take a deep breath of your own and lead the way to the jeep. It’s hard not to think about last year, watching Melissa send Scott off to high school and feeling the permanent hole in your stomach start to bleed again as you realized that you would never have this with your own son. While the father in you still clung to hope, the sheriff knew that you would never drive Stiles to high school for his first day. That, according to all of the statistics, your son’s life stopped at eleven. 

He would never walk down the aisle at graduation. He would never go to college. He would never fall in love. 

So many nevers, more than you could bear. (You drank yourself into a stupor that day - one of the few times the abyss swallowed you whole.) 

And yet here your son is, climbing into the passenger seat. You’re driving him to high school, after all, and you weren’t big on miracles before, but you sure as hell are now.  

Another deep breath to stave off the sudden rush of tears, and then you’re off. 

Both boys are quiet, restless. Stiles’ fingers twitch against the strap of his backpack and Newt is drawing patterns on the seat. 

“You have your schedules?” you ask as the school looms in the distance. “You know where you’re going?” 

More nodding. Scott is also probably waiting to ambush them as soon as they walk through the doors, so you know they’re going to be fine. Their tough, both of them. They can handle this. 

(You’re still worried, though.)

“And you have your phones?” Purchased for them two days ago. They figured out how to use them in five minutes. 

(You still kind of regret introducing them to Google because Stiles, naturally, spent six hours looking random things up, and you eventually had to pry the phone away so that he would take a break.)

“Yeah,” he says now. 

“Okay. Call me, remember, if you need  _ anything. _ ” 

“We will.” 

You don’t really believe him, but you’re not going to press the issue.

In the parking lot, they both sit for a long moment, staring at the front of the building. You clutch the steering wheel and hold your tongue, swallowing down another offer to head back to the house and forget this ever happened. Time, all the pamphlets said. Just give them time. 

Sure enough, Stiles eventually reaches for the door. Turns the handle. You watch his shoulders sink on an exhale before he pushes it open and steps out onto the asphalt. Newt follows a second behind. 

You lean out the window, hoping that your voice stays steady as you say, “I’ll pick you up at three, okay?”

He doesn’t call you dad or roll his eyes or any of the things you pictured on the rare occasions you imagined this scenario, but the corner of his mouth does quirk up in a small smile. “Okay.” 

“You’ll be fine.” 

“Right,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “Course we will.” 

You breathe out slow as he turns and walks toward the front steps. Lift a hand to wipe at your leaking eyes. 

Yeah, you tell yourself. They’re going to be fine. 

And, reciting that like a mantra, a litany, you throw the Jeep in reverse and head to the station for the first time in nearly two months. 

(Fine, everything is going to be fine.) 


	7. in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably be playing a little fast and loose with some canon details here (like the class talking about Kafka is from season one, for example ) but I figure we're already in wildly AU territory, so why the hell not, right? ;)

The front doors of the school yawn large and even more intimidating than the doors to the Glade. Only that’s a stupid comparison. They’re just doors and beyond them aren’t vicious monsters, but perfectly normal teenagers. 

He shouldn’t be so fucking afraid. 

“So,” Newt says next to him, a telltale wobble in his voice, “are we going in?” 

“Yeah.” 

Neither of them move. 

“We survived a death maze,” Newt says. 

“Yeah.” 

“For  _ three years.”  _

“Uh-huh.” 

“What the hell are we doing?” 

He almost laughs at that, at the indignation lacing Newt’s words and the frustrated furrow of his eyebrows. What the hell  _ are  _ they doing? John drove off ages ago and they’re still standing on the sidewalk like a pair of idiots. On top that, other students are definitely staring. One hundred and fifty percent staring. 

He used what John dubbed Google on his phone to look up “Stilinski” last night and found at least twenty articles about the sheriff’s son, missing and presumed dead, miraculously returning to Beacon Hills. A lot of these kids, he realizes now, probably knew Stiles once upon a time. Enough to connect the dots, anyway, and stare. 

Whisper, too. 

He wants to turn around and leave - run until he’s swallowed by the peaceful hush of the woods - but if he does, he knows that he’ll never work up the courage to come back. 

It’s still so tempting that his foot slides backwards, sneaker scraping against the concrete, and his body tenses in an instinctive flight reaction. Newt’s hand is so tight against the strap of his backpack his knuckles are bleaching white and his eyes are darting from one staring face to the next, jaw steadily tightening. 

“Stiles!” 

A hand claps down on his shoulder, startling him so badly he’s pretty sure his heart stops dead for half a second. 

But it’s just Scott. Beaming at him. 

“You made it!” 

“Kind of,” he mutters, because the sidewalk is probably only considered halfway at best. A third of the way? 

Scott is undeterred. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late for English.”

He tugs on Thomas’ arm with surprising strength, snagging Newt on the way past, too. Now people are  _ really  _ staring, but it doesn’t seem to bother Scott. Maybe he’s enough of an outcast that he doesn’t mind being seen as a friend to the weird newcomers. If that’s how high school even works. Most of his frantic, late night research didn’t yield many concrete results. He still only has a vague idea of what a “clique” is and can’t understand why throwing around different balls makes you popular. Or what the hell “cheerleading” is meant to be besides completely pointless (plus again,  _ why  _ does it make you popular?). 

He’s getting ahead of himself, though. 

First: English. 

Scott, mercifully, gets them seats at the back of the room and the teacher, mercifully, seems aware of their situation. He gives them a strained, aiming-for-sympathetic smile at the start of class and doesn’t call on them once. Thomas is still completely lost, though. The words on the board might as well be written in a different language. 

_ You getting any of this?  _

Newt rubs his temple. “ _ No. And there are … a lot of minds here.”  _

Shit, he never even considered the strain this many people might put on Newt. 

_ “I’m fine,”  _ Newt assures him before he can start properly panicking.  _ “Just need to work on my mental shields. _ ” 

_ Anything I can do to help, let me know.  _

Newt glares. His classic Stop-Treating-Me-Like-I’m-Weak-Tommy look, complete with furrowed eyebrows and a dark frown. Thomas shifts to face the front of the classroom again, just in time to see the teacher scrawl another word he doesn’t understand on the board. What the fuck is Kafka? And what does it have to do with metamorphosis? 

Oh wait, the teacher said a page number. Which page? 

_ “133.”  _

He glances at Newt who is, yep, smirking at him. But he’s right, it’s page 133 and Kakfa is apparently an author and this is apparently a story. A fucking  _ weird _ story he realizes after skimming the page. What the hell? A guy wakes up transformed into an insect? 

His head hurts. 

_ “You and me both,”  _ Newt says down the link. 

Thomas blows out a long, slow breath. 

_ _ 

Geometry is no better, though some of the equations  _ do  _ kind of look similar to the rudimentary calculations they used in the maze, trying to figure out its patterns and mapping out foundations for new construction projects. 

So he isn’t  _ quite  _ as lost as he was with Kafka, but it’s a very small margin. There is also a redhead two seats to his left that keeps glancing at him. Something about her seems familiar, like an echo from a dream. When she gets called up to write on the board, Scott leans forward and whispers, “that’s Lydia. I’ll introduce you guys at lunch.” 

Lydia … wait, Lydia Martin? The girl John was talking about - who climbed out of a hospital window and was lost in the woods for two days? He vaguely remembers the file open on the kitchen table one afternoon, and a note stating that Lydia Martin didn’t remember any of her two-day wanderings. Or even leaving the hospital in the first place. 

Huh. Maybe him and Newt aren’t the only crazy ones here. Though, looking at Lydia’s perfect posture and the confident speed she’s writing at, you would never be able to tell. He wonders, suddenly, if people can tell when they look at him and Newt. If it wasn’t for the stories in the papers, would they appear normal? 

Probably not. Lydia Martin seems infinitely better at faking it than they are. 

Maybe she has some tips. 

_ _ 

The Chemistry teacher ( _ Mr. Harris,  _ _the corner of the chalkboard declares in immaculate handwriting_ ) is a raging asshole, Thomas has decided. As soon as him and Newt take their seats, he pins them with a harsh stare. 

“Mr. Stilinski, Mr. Wilcox, while I am aware of your situation please do not assume it can be used as an excuse to fail this class.” 

Thomas blinks, startled. He can practically  _ feel  _ every head in the classroom turning towards them. Yup, what a total dick. 

“Uh … we won’t?” 

Mr. Harris arches a condescending eyebrow. “Is that a question, Mr. Stilinski?” 

“We won’t,” Newt repeats, sharp. 

Mr. Harris smirks. “I suppose we shall see.” 

With that he turns and starts writing on the board, announcing something about a “pop quiz,” which sounds ominous. 

“Don’t mind him,” Scott whispers from his table across the aisle. “He’s a jerk to everyone.” 

Somehow, that isn’t comforting. He still tries to give Scott a reassuring smile. He’s fine, he’s totally got this, it’s fine. 

Two minutes later, he’s reassessing that. The “pop quiz” is, in fact, a test. That he’s going to fail. Epically. There are fifteen questions and so far, he’s only certain of the answer to one. He digs his fingers into the black, smooth surface of the tabletop and tells himself for the hundredth time today to just  _ breathe.  _ It’s one test, in one class, on one day out of three hundred and sixty five. In the maze, he thought that the world beyond the towering walls must have ended - swept away by something powerful and destructive and devastating enough to justify locking up a bunch of kids for experimentation. But when he got out, he discovered that it was only one woman and a small team of scientists who went mad, not the whole world. 

It’s still standing, completely fine, and it will remain that way even if he fails this quiz. 

Newt shifts on the stool next to him and then the back of a familiar hand is pressing against the side of his own - a well-worn gesture of comfort that almost immediately soothes his jangling nerves. 

“ _ We’ll be okay, Tommy,”  _ Newt murmurs down the bond. Maybe if they tell it to each other enough, Thomas thinks, it will be true. It’s nice, that wishful thinking.  _ “Also, I’m pretty sure the answer to number three is carbon.”  _

He bites the inside of his cheek to hold in a startled laugh. Right, carbon. 

Well, that’s two questions. Look at him go. 

_ _ 

Lunch apparently requires you to get a tray and stand in line to be served truly disgusting looking food. This might even rival some of Frypan’s more experimental dishes. 

“C’mon,” Scott says, tugging on his sleeve. “I need to introduce you guys to the others.” 

The others are apparently Lydia Martin and a dark-haired girl with sharp eyes and a gentle smile. They both remind him of Teresa so much that his chest aches as he sits down, clutching his tray with suddenly unsteady fingers. 

Scott takes a seat next to the dark-haired girl and gives her a look so adoring it borders on sickening. 

Ah. Well, then. 

“This is Allison,” he announces when he finally manages to pry his gaze away from hers. “And that’s Lydia. Guys …” he pauses here, a look Thomas can’t decipher stealing across his face. When he speaks again, his voice sounds thick - almost like he’s on the verge of tears. “This is Stiles.” He coughs. “And Newt.” 

“Stiles Stilinski,” Lydia says, “back from the dead.” 

“In a manner of speaking.” 

“Is it really true you can’t remember anything?” 

“Lydia,” Allison interjects. 

“What?” 

Allison shakes her head and then extends a hand across the table. “It’s nice to meet you, Stiles. Newt.” 

They all shake. 

“No,” Thomas says, in response to Lydia’s question. He likes that she’s direct, even though he gets the feeling she could run circles around him with her eyes closed if she wanted to. Same as Teresa often did. “I can’t remember anything.” 

“Nothing?” 

“Absolutely nothing,” Newt chimes in. 

Lydia smirks, eyes lighting up a little. “Nice accent.” 

“Thank you.” 

Something about that answer amuses Lydia, though Thomas can’t imagine what.

“How are classes going?” Allison asks. 

“They’re going,” he grumbles, stabbing his fork into what he  _ thinks  _ are potatoes. It’s hard to tell. 

“Starting at a new school is always hard,” Allison agrees with a sympathetic smile. “Trust me, I’ve done it a  _ lot. _ ” 

“Really? Why?” 

She shrugs, pushing around some potatoes on her tray. Scott squeezes her hand. “My family moves around a lot because of my dad’s job.”  

Somehow, he doubts that’s the whole story, but he isn’t about to pry. “At least you know the basics,” he offers, trying to dispel the sudden melancholy. “I feel like I should be starting in kindergarten.” 

Newt shakes his head. “Preschool.” 

“You guys’ll get it,” Scott insists, ever the supportive friend. (Though it feels weird, thinking of him as that.) “It’ll just take some time, that’s all.” 

His face lights up, then - the almost universal expression of someone with a presumably brilliant idea. “Maybe Lydia can tutor you!” 

Lydia looks up from her phone. “What?” 

“She’s super smart, she could help you way more than I could.” 

It’s hard to tell what Lydia might be thinking - her poker face is better than even Newt’s. He doubts she’s thrilled about being signed up to tutor a couple of weird amnesiacs, though, and tries to backpedal out of this situation. “I’m sure she’s busy, Scott, and really we’re fine on-”

“I’ll do it,” Lydia declares. 

“You will?” Allison asks, sounding surprised.

Lydia shrugs. “I like his accent.” 

That’s … probably not the real reason, but whatever. He’s pretty sure there’s a saying about horses and mouths that applies here. 

“Awesome!” Scott says, grinning. “Thanks, Lydia.” 

“Yes, thank you,” Newt says. 

“From the bottom of our hearts,” Thomas declares and earns himself another smirk. 

Conversation turns from there to what Allison’s father does ( _ sell weapons)  _ to Scott’s mother ( _ a nurse)  _ to something called lacrosse ( _ one of the ball games that make people popular, apparently)  _ to a rundown of some of the teachers ( _ Mr. Harris is the worst).  _ It’s actually pleasant, if not for the strange undercurrent of tension Thomas can feel. It’s practically vibrating on the air. Like all three of them want to be talking about something else, but are forcing themselves not to. 

If Thomas didn’t know better, if they weren’t in the middle of a mundane cafeteria in the middle of a mundane school day, he’d almost say they’re  _ afraid.  _

_ “They are.”  _

_ Of what?  _

Newt takes a contemplative bite of what might be meat.  _ “I don’t know.” _

_ _ 

History passes in an absolute blur - he doesn’t even remember the teacher’s name after they stumble back out into the hall. Then there’s Economics, with possibly the loudest man he’s ever encountered. Judging from the pained expression Newt wears through all of it, even his  _ brain  _ is loud. 

They survive it - mostly because the teacher ( _ everyone calls him Coach, for some reason) _ spends most of the class picking on a kid in the back called “Greenberg” - only to discover that Physical Education ( _ always shortened to P.E., Scott explains and they, for some reason, change clothes)  _ is next and oh look, he teaches that, too. 

At least this is something he can fucking do, he thinks. He was the fastest runner in the maze, and one of the best fighters when he needed to be. Sure the wall with colorful handles looks fucking weird, but all they have to do is climb it. Piece of cake. 

“Wilcox, Greenburg,  you’re up first!” 

Shit, wait. 

Newt is staring up at the wall with barely concealed horror, but before Thomas can jump in, Scott is speaking, “uh, Coach, he can’t climb it.” 

“What?” Coach barks. “Why?” To Newt, “are you scared of heights?” 

“He has a bad leg,” Scott explains while Newt's mouth moves without sound coming out - which, wait, how does Scott know about that? Newt’s limp isn’t that obvious if you don’t know to look for it. 

Which means Scott is a lot more observant than he’s been giving him credit for. 

“It’s an old injury,” Newt says, recovering a little. “But I can’t climb.” 

“Huh,” Coach says and blows his whistle. “Argent and McCall, then!” 

Newt’s shoulders slump in relief and Thomas puts an arm around him, stubbornly ignoring the stares. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Newt declares, leaning into Thomas’ side. “I’m okay.” 

Allison chooses that moment to kick Scott off the wall, drawing everyone’s attention away from them. But it’s back a moment later when Coach shouts, “Stilinski, Erica! Let’s go. The wall!” 

Right, then. 

He leaves Newt with Scott and Allison and goes to get hooked into some kind of safety harness. ( _ Which kind of seems like overkill, really. There’s a mat and he’s definitely fallen from higher heights than this.) _ The girl, Erica, looks as terrified as Newt, though. 

“Hey,” he says before he starts his climb - old, protective instincts driving him, “you okay?” 

She nods without looking at him, and there’s nothing he can do but take her word for it. The colorful handles make climbing almost pathetically easy and he’s at the top in less than a minute. Erica, he notices on his descent, is frozen a quarter of the way up, shaking like a leaf. 

Shit. 

He stops next to her, settling into a more comfortable position against the wall. “Hey, Erica.” She shifts her head to look at him, heaving breaths wheezing out through gritted teeth. “It’s okay.” He’s slipping into the calm, reassuring voice he perfected with new Gladers ( _ with Chuck, though he isn’t thinking about that) _ . “Do you want to go back down?” 

A crowd has gathered at the base of the wall. Several people, including Coach, are talking, but Thomas tunes them out. Right now, the world consists of him and Erica, suspended on the rock wall together. 

He shifts closer to her, extending an arm. “I can help you down, okay? Just take my hand.” 

She carefully reaches out for him and when her hand closes around his, her nails dig in deep, clutching onto him like he’s a liferaft in the middle of an ocean. “I’ve got you,” he says, ignoring the flare of pain. “On three, we’re going to kick off from the wall.” 

She hiccups, eyes wet, and he squeezes her hand in silent encouragement. “It’ll be okay. I won’t let you fall. And there’s a mat that’ll catch us if anything happens. Ready?” 

Slowly, jerkily, she nods. 

“One, two, three.” She kicks off with him and he controls their descent as best as he can, walking them down the wall to the mat. She staggers when she’s back on solid ground and he keeps a hand on her shoulder to steady her. 

“There, see?” 

“Right,” Coach says, clapping his hands together. “You’re fine. Shake it off! You’ll be fine!” 

She bites her lip, embarrassment setting in, and now other kids are laughing- he can hear the titters bouncing through the crowd. Erica hears them, too, and pulls out of his grip, hurrying through the gathered students with her head bent. 

He should probably let her go, she probably wants to be alone, and both Newt and Scott are coming towards him, questions written all over their faces. 

But he can’t just leave her. This is another thing he can do. He shoots Scott and Newt an apologetic look and gives chase, catching up with Erica out in the deserted hallway. 

“Hey!” he calls and she stops but doesn’t lift her head. 

“What do you want?” Her tone is sharp, defensive. Not unlike the one he used on the LCB way back in Arizona, what feels like a lifetime ago. 

“Just to make sure you’re okay.” 

She turns around, the fluorescents catching on the tears streaked down her cheeks. “I’m fine.”

“No offense, but you don’t look fine.” 

She sniffs and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“I’m sorry they laughed at you.” 

A shrug. “I’m used to it.” 

“Why?” 

She stares at him like he’s an idiot. “Because I’m an epileptic  _ freak. _ ” 

He blinks, hating these massive gaps in his knowledge. “Epileptic?” 

“Yes,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“I … don’t know what that means.” 

“Really?” Now she’s incredulous and it’s his turn to shrug. 

“I have amnesia. Didn’t even remember my own name until they told it to me, so….” 

“Wait …” she says, recognition dawning. “You’re that kid! The one that went missing, like, five years ago.” 

“Yep,” he says and gives an awkward wave that seems to disarm her even further. “Guess we’re both freaks.” 

“You really don’t remember anything?” 

“Zilch.” It’s actually getting easier to admit. 

“Wow,” she says, looking fascinated. She tucks a strand of her wild hair behind her ear. “Epilepsy means I get seizures, caused by disrupted nerve cells in my brain.” 

“And people make  _ fun  _ of you for that?”  Teenagers are worse than he thought. 

“All the time,” she says bitterly. “One time, I had one in the middle of class. Kids took turns putting things in my mouth.” 

“Fucking bastards,” he blurts, gut instinct. 

She looks surprised for a brief moment, then a smile breaks over her face. 

“Thank you,” she says. “For helping me back there.” 

“Us freaks have to look out for each other, right?” he says. 

She actually laughs - a clear, pleasant sound. “Right.” 

“I’m Thom-Stiles,” he corrects, realizing this is the first time he’s introduced himself with his real name. It doesn’t  _ feel  _ real, falling from his mouth. '

“I know,” Erica says in amusement and right, newspaper articles everywhere. “But it’s nice to meet you.” 

_ “Tommy,”  _ Newt calls down the bond.  _ “Coach is looking for you.”  _

“We should probably head back, right?” he says to Erica, gesturing in the direction of the gym. 

She bites her lip and shakes her head. “You go on ahead, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” 

He feels, deep down, that he shouldn’t leave her, but that could be overprotectiveness talking. He quashes the urge to insist that he wait for her, make sure no one laughs at her at least this one time, and nods. “Okay. See you around, Erica.” 

“See you around, Stiles.” 

_ _ 

Less than ten minutes later, she’s seizing on the floor of the gym while Scott holds her hand and Newt tries frantically to calm her brain down long enough for an ambulance to arrive. 

Thomas keeps a gentle grip her shaking shoulder, listening to her choked whimpers, and feels failure stab him straight in the gut. 

_ _ 

“How was your first day of school?” John asks on the drive home. Thomas is more distracted by Newt in the backseat, hunched over with his face pressed against the window. Trying to help Erica took a lot out of him - potentially too much - and Thomas is waiting for the coughing to set in. 

“Fine,” he says to John. 

“Fine?” John echoes. “Oh, c’mon, don’t do that teenager thing where you suddenly refuse to tell me any details about your life. Did you like your classes? How were the other students?” John glances in the rearview mirror. “You okay back there, kid?” 

“Fine,” Newt mumbles and sits up straighter. “Just tired.” 

“The classes were okay,” Thomas says, drawing John’s attention back to him. “Didn’t understand much, but I was expecting that. Mr. Harris is a dick.” 

John winces. “Ah, yeah, that might be my fault.” 

That doesn’t really make any sense. “Your fault?” 

“He was … kind of considered a suspect in a case a few months back. I wasn’t in town at the time, but I’m still the sheriff. My department.” 

“So, what, he’s out for revenge?” 

John shrugs. “Or just a dick.” 

That startles a laugh out of Thomas and John looks at him like he just conjured sunshine out of thin air. It’s still hard, dealing with John’s enduring  _ hope,  _ but he has to admit John isn’t like he imagined a father would be: less stern, more down to earth, more willing to meet him and Newt where they are - trauma and hang ups and reticence and all. 

_ I’m lucky,  _ Thomas thinks, not for the first time. 

“What about the other kids? Were they okay?” 

“They stared a lot,” he admits, not seeing the point of keeping that from John. 

John winces. “Yeah, I figured that would happen. I tried keeping your return under wraps, but this is still a relatively small town. Nothing’s a secret and rumors travel at warp speed.” 

Thomas shrugs. “It’s okay.” 

He’s dealt with a lot worse than staring. 

John doesn’t look convinced. “Well, if you need me to talk to anyone….” 

“We’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah,” Newt chimes in. “We can handle it.” 

John shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

_ _ 

At home, John leaves them to study and says he’ll summon them for dinner in an hour or two - plenty of time for Thomas to get Newt upstairs and let him cough over the sink. He manages to keep mostly quiet, upper body shaking with the effort, but by the time he’s finished there are splatters of red all over the white porcelain. 

“Fuck, Newt,” Thomas whispers, rubbing his back. He feels helpless,  _ useless -  _ Newt’s face is tight with pain and there isn’t a single fucking thing he can do about it. 

At least Newt doesn’t say he’s fine this time. Just wipes a timorous hand over his mouth and murmurs, “I think I need to lie down.” 

“You  _ definitely  _ need to lie down,” Thomas agrees and steers him back to the bedroom. 

“Stop it with that face,” Newt says as Thomas helps him under the covers and gets a pillow situated under his head. “‘M not dying.” 

_ You might be,  _ he doesn’t say. 

_ “I’m not dying  _ **_yet_ ** _ , then.”  _

“Stay out of my head,” Thomas huffs, goodnaturedly, and cards careful fingers through Newt’s hair. 

“Not in your head,” Newt fires back, eyes already starting to droop closed. 

“I know, I know, I’m broadcasting.” 

“Always so bloody  _ loud.”  _

“Get some sleep,” Thomas insists. 

“I wanted to help her,” Newt continues, ignoring him. “All that killing. Have to … wash the blood off somehow, right?” 

Thomas’ stomach twists. “Get some sleep.” 

Newt mumbles something unintelligible and then he’s gone, eyes shut and breathing evened out. Thomas takes a deep, shaky breath of his own, and goes to scrub the blood out of the sink before John notices.  _ This  _ is definitely worth keeping from him. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket when he’s halfway through, startling him. He’s still not used to the fucking thing, even though he finds Google extraordinarily helpful. 

He fishes it out and sees a text from an unfamiliar number:  _ Hey its Scott. Sheriff gave me ur number. U make it home okay?  _

Oh look, another mother hen. 

It takes him longer than he’ll admit to get the hang of the touchscreen, but he eventually manages to type back:  _ yes, thanks.  _ He pauses, debating. Scott is a little bit exhausting - they all are - but he should be making friends, shouldn’t he? 

Or rediscovering friends, in Scott’s case. 

_ Do you want to study together tomorrow night? If Lydia’s still up for tutoring?  _

Scott texts back less than a minute later.  _ Sure! I’ll see if she’s free and let u know.  _

_ Great. See you tomorrow.  _

_ See u tomorrow.  _

He pockets the phone again, confident that no one else is going to text him for the foreseeable future, and attacks one last stubborn spot in the corner of the sink. He pauses once he’s finished, in the lingering silence of the bathroom, and listens to the harsh rhythm of his breath in his ears. He misses Minho’s dry, sarcastic wit and Frypan’s optimism and Winston’s recklessness and Alby’s steadiness and even Gally’s bluntness and Chuck …  _ Chuck.  _

The wooden carving is sitting on the desk in his room, he even failed to give it to Chuck’s parents, like he wanted - and then Erica earlier, rushed to the hospital - he’s such a fucking failure, he- 

He claps a hand over his mouth to stop the rising sob from breaking free - digs his fingers into his cheek hard. He can’t fall apart right now. He can’t fall apart  _ ever.  _ He needs to figure out what’s wrong with him and Newt, if whatever Ava Paige did is killing them, and he needs to get the hang of school, and figure out how to be John’s son and … 

And live. Live this unexpected, strange life he’s found himself in the middle of. 

For some reason, that seems to be the most daunting thing of all. ( _ He’s starting to think escaping the maze was the easy part.)  _

It’s too big and uncertain to think about - days and weeks and months and years as Stiles Stilinski of Beacon Hills, even just getting up and going to school tomorrow - so for right now, he returns to the blank-walled bedroom and sits on the floor next to the bed. Newt is still asleep, flopped over on his side, arm hanging off the mattress. Thomas smiles at the sight, a familiar rush of fondness washing over him. 

_ At least I’m not alone,  _ he thinks as he takes Newt’s hand, twining their fingers together. Listens to his steady breathing and the distant sounds of John moving around in the kitchen downstairs. 

At least there’s that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you so desire, you can also find me on tumblr at [wobblyspelling](http://www.wobblyspelling.tumblr.com).


	8. hold

Lydia Martin, he thinks, could probably change the world if she wanted to. Certainly run for president, though from what he’s learning that seems a waste of her talents. She knows more than he thought possible for one human mind to contain, but science is where she truly lights up. Like now, for example, going over some biology basics with him and Thomas. It’s nearly nine p.m., according to the clock, Newt’s brain is fit to explode, and Scott is asleep on his textbook, but no one else is ready to stop. 

Least of all Thomas, who sometimes needs to prove himself in a way Newt’s never quite been able to understand. 

“Okay, tell me again,” he says, gripping a highlighter in his hand like a knife and glaring down at the biology textbook as though he can command it to provide the answers he needs. 

Lydia rolls her eyes, but starts to explain the process of metamorphosis again, from the beginning. She is a study in contrasts, Newt has discovered over the course of their three study sessions to date - always sarcastic, outwardly unsympathetic, but patient without being condescending. Or perhaps it is not contrast at all. Perhaps the patience is merely them getting a glimpse behind the towering, icy walls she has erected. Her mind is full of them-jagged-edged and perilous, steeped with courage, cracked by fear. 

Something is haunting her, but he can’t figure out  _ what.  _

Perhaps, he should be paying attention to metamorphosis instead. Which is entirely different from the disturbing novella they’re reading for English class, but actually somewhat related because the definition of metamorphosis is either a)  ( in an insect or amphibian) “the process of transformation from an immature form to an adult form in two or more distinct stages” or b) “a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means,” and the protagonist of  _ Metamorphosis  _ wakes up having magically become an insect…. 

Bloody hell his brain hurts. 

John makes another pass through the kitchen, assessing without being obvious. He’s offered everyone food three times in the last three hours and his worry is buzzing in the back of Newt’s mind like a particularly angry bee, but overall he seems glad that Scott and Lydia are here. It’s the frustrated look on Thomas’ face that truly has him worried, right along with the dark circles smudged under his eyes and the bleach-white of his knuckles around the highlighter. 

Right. 

“Okay,” Newt declares, closing his textbook with a bang. Scott jolts awake, shoulders tensing in defense before he realizes where he is and relaxes agan. Interesting. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” 

Thomas, predictably, splutters in protest, so Newt reaches over and closes his textbook, too. “You’ve highlighted the shit out of that, mate. Let the information soak in a little, yeah?” 

Thomas sighs, long and low, but caps the highlighter and scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re right.” 

“You’re doing well,” Lydia chimes in, and Newt doubts she would lie to them. “You’ve picked up more in three days than Scott learned in a whole semester.” 

“Hey,” Scott says in feeble protest. 

Thomas laughs, which seems to surprise everyone, including himself. It’s been a long time since Newt heard a proper laugh out of him, and his heart aches at the sound. 

“Okay,” Thomas says with a shake of his head. “I’ll take that.” 

Lydia nods in apparent approval and begins packing up her things. Scott follows suit, much more haphazardly, but pauses in the middle of trying to shove three textbooks at once into his bag. “Oh! We’re going ice skating tomorrow night - me, Allison, and Lydia. You guys should come.” 

He has no earthly idea what ice skating is, but it might be nice to get out of the house for something other than school and insomnia-driven walks in the woods. 

“Sure,” Thomas says, clearly of the same mind. 

Scott beams at them and his genuine excitement is so strong that Newt can almost taste the brightness on his tongue. While John’s hopes is heavy and sturdy, like iron, Scott’s  _ burns- _ f ierce and unyielding. Newt is certain that, unlike John, Scott never once thought Thomas was dead. 

“Awesome! I’ll pick you up at eight, okay? And of course, I’ll see you both at school tomorrow.” 

“Of course,” Thomas says, amused. 

“Of course,” Lydia echoes, “we see them  _ every day. _ ” 

In spite of her exasperation, there’s a smile twitching along her lips. 

Scott, unfazed, claps them both on the shoulder before following Lydia out the door. In spite of himself, and in spite of all of their secrets and walls, Newt likes them more and more with each passing day. 

“ _ I like them, too.”  _ Thomas sounds a little frustrated by this fact, but then again, they both know how dangerous attachment can be. 

In spite of the glaring exception they’ve made for themselves. 

Speaking of another person he likes, John materializes in the doorway. “How did it go?” 

He asks that every time, and even though the answer is usually the same, he always wants to hear it. 

“Fine,” Thomas says, as usual. “We’re making progress. I think we’ve passed the third grade now.” 

“Three grades in three days ain’t bad, kid,” John points out. 

And it really, really isn’t, but Thomas always ran faster than everyone. 

“Yeah,” he says now, without much conviction. He also glances at the textbook without much subtly. Newt scoops it off the table and hands it to John. 

“Please keep this so he can’t stay up all night.” 

John takes it and his nod is deeply understanding. In many ways, it seems Thomas has changed little from the kid he used to be. One who stayed up all night reading, no matter how firmly his father told him to go to bed. 

Newt wonders what kind of child  _ he  _ was, and then shuts down that train of thought quickly. It’s pointless - there’s no one to ask. 

“I wasn’t going to stay up all night,” Thomas protests. 

“Uh-uh,” John says, tucking the book under his arm. “I’m still keeping this. And you should try some of that sleep tea I bought. You look half dead.” 

Right, Newt almost forgot that discussion. John suggested sleeping pills, which went down like a lead balloon, and so tea was the alternative option. Since it’s natural and Newt already drinks it in spades, anyway. He’s still hesitant to try it, but Thomas  _ does  _ look half dead, which means he probably looks about the same. They haven’t gotten a full night sleep since … he can’t remember. 

“Good idea,” he says through his own lingering trepidation. 

Thomas shoots him a betrayed look that he ignores on his way over to the new electric kettle John also purchased. It heats water with a simple flip of a switch and Newt is a little bit in love with it, as stereotypical as that probably is. 

John nods again, a little awkwardly. Perhaps because Thomas still looks ready to argue. “Right, well.  Goodnight, boys.” 

_ He’s  _ probably going to stay up late pouring over case notes - a man violently murdered recently, and his son a potential suspect, who also inexplicably escaped from custody - but Newt isn’t about to point out any hypocrisy. 

“Get two mugs, will you, Tommy?” he asks once John’s retreated to the living room. 

“Sleep tea? Really?” Thomas asks, but a cupboard door creaks open. 

“It can’t hurt to try.” 

“I didn’t realize we were that desperate.” 

“ _ I  _ am,” he says, a little harsher than he means to. 

But he’s felt a bit like an exposed nerve since Erica - everything scrapes him raw too easily,  _ especially  _ school - and it’s taking longer to fade than he anticipated. 

Not to mention the insidious voice in the back of his mind - different from all the sensations he picks up from others, different from Thomas’ warm, sometimes brilliant presence - that whispers  _ you’re dying dying dying  _ at night when he’s staring at shadows on the ceiling instead of sleeping. 

Thomas’ alarm hits him like a battering ram. “Newt...” 

“Oh, sod off,” he snaps. Then, almost immediately, the guilt sets in. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean that.” 

Thomas leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “You’re allowed to be mad at me, you know.” 

Newt huffs, watching steam spout from the mouth of the kettle. “What’s the bloody point of that? You’re in my head - it would just make everything miserable. Besides…” The kettle starts to shake with the force of the boiling water and the switch flips off. He lifts it from its cradle and fills the two mugs Thomas has set out. “It’s rarely you I’m actually mad at.” 

Thomas’ frown cuts sharp across his face. “Yeah, but if it would help … you keep everything bottled up so much, Newt. And … we’re not in the maze anymore. You don’t need to put on a brave front for anyone.” 

He knows that, of course he does. There are no longer over two dozen Gladers depending on him for leadership, counting on him not to lose the plot. He was the anchor to Thomas’ hurricane, the glue that held everyone together, the voice of reason, always - even through the screams building in the back of his throat. He only cracked, well and truly  _ cracked,  _ once and he’s got a limp to this day to remind him what a proper stupid mistake that was. 

Still, it’s hard to let go of his old role. Especially when it feels like the only thing that’s kept him sane for so long. 

“Course I do, Tommy,” he says, reaching over to flick Thomas’ shoulder. “ _ Someone  _ has to be the logical one still.” 

“I’m not  _ that  _ reckless,” Thomas protests and no, he isn’t, but he’ll let Newt pretend. 

“Not  _ always.”  _

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Fine, drink your fucking tea.” 

“You, too.” He holds out a mug to Thomas. 

Thomas takes it with a put upon sigh, and hides his faint smile behind the rim. 

_ _ 

He’s not sure if it’s a placebo effect or if the tea actually works, but they both sleep through the night. 

“Not a word,” Thomas insists as they get ready for school. “Not a single fucking word, Newt.” 

Newt’s pretty sure his answering smirk conveys his feelings well enough. 

“Asshole,” Thomas mutters without any real conviction and smacks him on the arm on his way out the door. 

Newt laughs into the empty room, the sound jagged and rough against the sides of his mouth, but light in his chest. 

_ _ 

School is the usual blur of struggling to keep in classes, ignoring the random stares from other students, trying not to get upset at Mr. Harris’ continued barbs (especially when Newt can feel his insecurity seething beneath his snobbish bravado - he needs to push down others in order to feel strong and that just makes him pathetic), and then standing in line for dubious food at lunch. 

They have a customary table in the cafeteria now, always with Scott and occasionally with Allison or Lydia. No other friends have been forthcoming, but considering it’s been less than a week, they’re making amazing progress. Thomas has also looked for Erica every day since the rock wall incident, but she hasn’t been back. 

Newt’s sure she’s okay. Out here, in the “real” world, medical care is much better than two teenagers with rudimentary training fumbling their way through stitching wounds and bracing broken limbs. 

(Considering everything, it’s a miracle he can still walk.) 

Today, Scott is once more running over their ice skating plan. Apparently, he’s procured keys to something called a “rink” from a fellow student - to the tune of fifty dollars, which is, according to Scott “highway robbery” - and he’ll pick them both up after he’s finished with work. Allison and Lydia will meet them there. Newt’s about to ask more about Scott’s job when he senses it: something wild and feral and barely human. The same presence lurking inside the man in the woods and Scott (though he hasn’t sensed it from the other boy since). 

The mind hosting this foreign, animal-like thing is also familiar. 

He looks up just in time to see Erica striding through the doors of the cafeteria. At least, he thinks it’s Erica. Her long blond hair is the same, but it’s far from the wild mane she sported before. She’s traded her sneakers for towering heels and her sweatpants for a short skirt he thinks he should be mildly shocked by. Paired with a leather jacket and actual makeup, she looks like an entirely different person. 

But she  _ feels  _ like one, too. Her mind is … clear. Strong. Completely free of the disrupted nerves that caused her epilepsy. Her skin even has a fresh, healthy glow to it - as though she’s taken some kind of miracle potion. 

He barely hears Lydia approach and ask,  “what. The holy hell. Is  _ that? _ ” Doesn’t even hear Scott’s answer at all. He’s too preoccupied by the twin sensations he’s getting from Erica - animal and human, blended together, one barely containing the other. He can almost hear the roar echoing in his own mind and it makes his skin crawl, his hair practically stand on end. 

She looks so healthy but something is deeply  _ wrong.  _

Some new arrivals felt like this, as did those stung by the Grievers - their human minds slipping away and some kind of beast rising in its place. In the maze, there was nothing to do but kill them before they killed others. Out here, in the “real” world?

Well, it seems even this is different. 

Erica strides right up to their table, still holding the apple she stole from a flabbergasted boy’s lunch tray. She smirks at Scott, something unspoken passing between them: satisfaction from her and horror from Scott. 

Then she presses a slip of paper into Thomas’ hand and saunters away.

“What … the hell?” Thomas asks, though his fingers curl protectively around the paper. 

“Did she give you something?” Scott demands with uncharacteristic fierceness. “What’s it say?” 

It’s the wrong tone to take with Thomas, whose hackles raise immediately. “Nothing.” He pockets the piece of paper. “She just wants to talk to me.” He glances at Newt. “Us.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Scott offers. 

Thomas’ eyes narrow. “Nah, we’ll be fine.” 

“Stiles…” 

“We can take care of ourselves, Scott.” Thomas insists. Which is very much true, but something else is going on here. Something that Scott knows about, something that makes Scott angry and  _ afraid,  _ and Newt doesn’t like it one bit. 

He thought they were done with subterfuge after they escaped the grip of Ava Paige and her research team, but it appears not. 

Thomas claps him on the shoulder, already rising from his seat. “C’mon, Newt.” 

“Stiles,” Scott tries again, not realizing that it’s pointless. Thomas, once set on something, is immovable as a mountain. 

“We’ll see you in History, Scott.” 

Scott’s hands curl into fists on the table, but he doesn’t protest any further. 

Erica is waiting for them in the deserted hallway, by Thomas’ locker. How she knows which one is his, Newt can’t even begin to fathom. Everything about this is too strange. 

_ Be careful, Tommy. I don’t like this.  _

Thomas sends a rush of reassurance - “ _ I got this”  _ and  _ “don’t worry about it”  _ crushed together with his usual confidence. 

“Hi, Erica,” he says, calm. 

Erica smiles at him and it lights up her face, so different from the knowing, flirtatious smirk she aimed at Scott. “Hi, Stiles. Newt.” 

He also can’t remember if he ever told her  _ that  _ name, but that doesn’t seem high up on the list of important things at the moment. 

“You’re looking quite well,” he says, which is perhaps one of the biggest understatements he’s ever uttered but. Semantics. 

“Thank you,” Erica says, beaming. “And look, I don’t have long, but I know you both helped me. Back in the gym. And I want to help you, too.” 

She holds out another piece of paper. 

“What’s this?” Thomas asks, taking it with an arched eyebrow. 

“Coordinates. Meet me there tomorrow night.” 

“This is all very cloak and dagger,” Newt points out. He can feel Thomas’ unease, as well, echoing his own. 

“I can’t explain here.” Erica sounds genuinely apologetic. “But I have something that could cure your amnesia. Just meet me tomorrow night and I can explain everything.” 

Surprise surges down the bond, but none of it makes it onto Thomas’ face. Newt feels a little like he’s reeling, too. Something that could cure their amnesia? The same miracle potion that cured her epilepsy? That fused that beast inside of her, just beneath her skin? 

“Cure our amnesia?” Thomas asks, dubiously. Carefully. His fingers are twitching at his side. 

Erica nods. “It should. It helped me.” 

“Erica…” Thomas starts, but she reaches out and closes his fingers around the paper. 

“It’s nothing bad, I promise. Us freaks need to stick together, right?” 

That makes a smile flit across Thomas’ face. “Right.” 

“Good,” Erica says with an answering smile of her own. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

Then, she flicks her hair over her shoulder and walks away, tall and confident and beautiful. 

“Shit,” Thomas mumbles when she’s out of earshot. “Shit, what is this, Newt?” 

Sometimes, Newt wishes that Thomas would stop looking to him for answers he doesn’t have. “I don’t know.” 

“Do you think it’s Ava Paige?” 

He thinks of the animal in Erica, the ferals in the Glade, and shakes his head slowly. “No, I think this is something different.” 

Ava Paige is dead and she was a mortal woman, for all her brilliance. Newt refuses to believe that her reach extends all the way to Beacon Hills. That she could still have sway over their lives even from beyond the grave. The fact that whatever she did is probably killing him is bad enough. 

“Worse different?” Thomas asks, staring down at the piece of paper. 

“I don’t know. But, Tommy…” Thomas glances up at him. “She felt like Scott did, like that man in the woods, too.” 

“An animal inside a person?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Shit,” Thomas mumbles again. Scrubs a hand over his face. 

“We could just … not go?” Newt suggests, even though he knows that isn’t  _ truly  _ an option. 

Thomas is far too curious to let something like this slide, and Newt would also like to cut through these building layers of mystery to whatever the core of all this is. He’s had quite enough lies, thank you  _ very  _ much. 

“We have to,” Thomas insists, predictable as always. “If this is something dangerous…” 

_ We’ll talk about it later,  _ Newt decides. 

The middle of school is not the place to have a discussion like this. 

Thomas nods in agreement, cutting off whatever else he’d been going to say. With almost perfect timing, the bell rings - loud and shrill. 

_ _ 

Scott is buzzing with questions in history, but Thomas refuses to answer any of them, as unreadable as stone. This clearly frustrates Scott, but once again he doesn’t push it. 

All these secrets, Newt thinks, seething just beneath the surface. Waiting for inevitable discovery. 

Because the maze taught him many things, but one of the most powerful lessons was this: nothing can stay hidden forever, no matter how hard you try. 

_ _ 

In spite of the tension earlier, Scott dutifully picks them up at eight and spends the drive to the rink trying to explain ice skating. Apparently it involves strapping bladed shoes onto your feet and gliding around on a ring of ice. 

“What if the ice breaks and you fall through?” Thomas ask, dubious. 

“This isn’t  _ real  _ ice,” Scott says, which makes absolutely no sense at all. “There’s no water underneath it.” 

“Fake ice?” 

“Ask Lydia,” Scott declares, finally bailing. “She’ll be able to explain better.” 

At the rink, Lydia does indeed explain better. There  _ is  _ actually water, but it’s a fairly thin layer of it, spread across a slab of concrete that has pipes running through it (or along the top of it). These pipes carry a chilled liquid (usually water with antifreeze), that can keep the slab cold and the water on top frozen. So no risk of the ice cracking or anyone falling in. 

And just like that, his head hurts again. 

“Huh,” Thomas says. 

Lydia laughs at the stunned expression on his face as she finish tying offer her skates. “Come on.” 

Thomas still looks very uncertain about stepping out onto the ice, but Scott is falling all over the place and seems none the worse for wear. That’s what gives Newt the courage to venture out, too, gripping the wall for safety. It’s a weird sensation, not having solid ground beneath his feet, but he gets the hang of it pretty quickly. There’s a rhythm to it that he likes - left, right, left, right. You have to think about it more than walking, but it’s fun. Feels almost like running did, back in the early days of the maze. 

Thomas, however, is not so lucky. He falls even more than Scott, which is truly a feat, and after the twentieth time faceplanting onto the ice, Newt can’t resist skating over to him and crouching down. “All right there, Greenie?” 

“Fuck off,” Thomas groans, rolling onto his back and slinging his arm over his eyes. “This is the worst experience of my life.” 

“Drama queen,” Newt scoffs. “This is a recreational activity.” 

“No, this is a form of torture.” 

“Only if you’re bad at it.” 

“Fuck off,” Thomas repeats. “I hate you.” 

Newt rolls his eyes and helps him up. Then helps him to the stands where he is soon dragged away by Scott and Allison to check out something called a “photobooth.” 

“He gives up easily,” Lydia comments as she effortlessly glides up to him. 

(He has yet to see a single thing that Lydia Martin is bad at.)

“Only on unimportant things,” he says, turning to face her. 

“Hmm.” She tilts her head, thoughtful, “I suppose you’re right. Come on, then.” She takes his hand and pulls him back out onto the ice. 

They do a nearly full circle in silence before Lydia says, with a strange vulnerability, “has it been hard? Adjusting?” 

“In some ways.” 

She nods, chewing on her lip for a moment. “Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy?” 

“All the time.” 

“I suppose you were diagnosed with PTSD.” 

“Yes.” He’s not sure where she’s going with this. 

“What’s the hardest thing about it?” 

“The PTSD?” 

At her nod, he considers. Is it the constant sense of paranoia? The lingering uncertainty that none of this is real? The flashbacks he still sometimes get if the sun hits the trees a certain way or someone who looks like Alby passes by him in a hallway? No, it’s … 

“The dreams.” His and Thomas.’ Blended together into one terrifying nightmare he sometimes doesn’t know if he’ll wake up from. 

“The dreams…” Lydia echoes, absently. 

Then she stops in the middle of the rink, staring at something at her feet. He follows her gaze down and freezes. A plant is sprouting from the ice, with blue bell-shaped flowers. Lydia drops to her hands and knees, staring at it with horror. 

It isn’t real, Newt realizes with another jolt. But Lydia believes it is and so he’s seeing what her mind is projecting to her. 

_ Well, this is new.  _

“Lydia,” he says, trying to snap her out of it. 

She doesn’t listen, brushing at the ice with her hands. There is … a man. Trapped beneath it. Fairly young, handsome, with brown hair and blue eyes. Newt watches, stunned, as he presses his hands against the ice and screams, almost without sound. 

Lydia opens her mouth and screams as well, her mind careening fully into panic and terror. 

Newt crashes to his knees next to her, gripping her shoulders as she writhes, clawing at the ice. Her fear is a freight train, an earthquake, shaking him to the core. Dimly, he’s aware of Scott, Allison, and Thomas rushing back through the doors, but his focus is on calming Lydia before she tears his mind to pieces with her own. 

And he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t - not so soon after Erica - but he presses a hand to side of her head and reaches  _ in,  _ stretching out with his powers and throwing up shields in his own mind as he goes. He delves past the terror, past the roaring insistence that the illusions she’s seeing are real, that something is hunting her, and rips the hallucination itself to shreds. Spreads calm in its wake as best he can, a soothing litany of:  _ safe safe safe  _ and  _ not real it isn’t real breathe Lydia you’re okay.  _

Her screams fade into heaving gasps and then she slumps against him, shaking and silent - her fingers curled tight in the front of his coat. He’s shaking, too, he realizes, and already he can feel a migraine coming on, a familiar burning in his lungs. He pushes it down so that he can wrap his arms around Lydia like he always does with Thomas after a nightmare. 

Thomas, who is now kneeling beside him, sliding a steadying arm across his shoulders. 

“What happened?” Allison asks, eyes full of worry. 

“I’m not sure,” Newt manages to croak out. 

For some reason, he doesn’t think Lydia would appreciate him spreading secrets. If she hasn’t told Allison or Scott about these hallucinations (because he doubts this is the first), then he won’t be the one to. 

Allison takes a deep breath, stifling her own fear somewhere deep, and nods. “Right, I’d better take her home.” 

Together, her and Scott manage to get Lydia to her feet and over to the stands. 

“Come on,” Thomas says, hauling him upright, as well. “Let’s get those skates off.” 

He nods, pressing his lips together to force down the first cough rising up his throat. He can taste blood in the back of his mouth - bitter and sharp and familiar. 

Thomas' arm shifts to his waist and his face is taut with barely contained anxiety. " _ Are you okay? What really happened?”  _

_ I’ll be alright,  _ he insists.  _ And I’ll tell you later. _

Thomas nods, squeezes his side.  _"I'll hold you to that."_

_Believe me,_ Newt fires back, dry.  _I know._

_ _ _  _

Somehow, they make it home without incident, even though Scott apologizes several times for a ruined evening. 

“Dude,” Thomas finally says, sounding very much like Chuck, “it’s not your fault.” 

“Is Lydia going to be alright?” Newt asks instead of letting his mind wander to Chuck. Always dangerous territory, that. 

“Allison texted and said they made it back to her place okay," Scott says. The wheel creaks beneath his grip. "She’s still shaken up, but she’ll be okay.” 

There is so much that Scott still isn’t telling them. Newt can  _ feel  _ it, but he’s too tired to dig now. He just wants to sleep, preferably without coughing up any internal organs first. And his head is bloody  _ pounding.  _

Thomas can clearly sense the migraine because when they make it through the front door, he calls to John that they’re okay and they’re going to bed, and guides him upstairs to lie down. 

“Twice this week,” Newt jokes weakly as Thomas fusses, getting his sneakers off and shoving a pillow beneath his head. “Pretty sure this is a new record.” 

“Yeah, not one I wanted you to set,” Thomas grumbles. 

He disappears to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water that he makes Newt drink half of. It helps more than Newt cares to admit. 

Unlike last time, Thomas climbs into bed with him, sitting with his legs folded and his back against the wall. Newt curls up with a hand on his knee, listening to him type something on his phone. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“Looking up the coordinates Erica gave us.” 

“And?” 

Thomas frowns. “They’re near where we were when we met that creepy guy. In fact, they’re probably  _ on  _ his property.” 

Newt doesn’t have the energy to be surprised. “Brilliant. Smashing. We’re going armed this time.” 

“No shit.” 

John probably won’t miss a few kitchen knives for an evening. 

And bloody hell if that thought doesn’t make him want to laugh. So much for a normal life. Somehow, he isn’t surprised about that, either. After Ava Paige, he doubts they were meant for one, anyway. 

Might as well embrace their fate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like, come hit me up on tumblr at [wobblyspelling](http://www.wobblyspelling.tumblr.com). I don't bite, I promise. :)


	9. in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned in the first chapter notes, I've taken pretty massive liberties with Thomas and Newt's time in the maze, which will be elaborated on in upcoming chapters. Hopefully y'all don't mind. :)

Leaves crunch loud beneath his sneakers, rattle on the branches overhead. The winter wind is biting and the waxing moon shines silver on the trunks of the trees, casting everything in eerie light and shadow. It reminds him of the Glade at night, waiting with fingers clutched around a spear to see if monsters would come. Or maybe even Section 7, with its twisting foliage and lurking wildlife. If he ignores the inadequacy of the knife tucked into his belt, he could be leading a hunting party in the maze - Minho and Gally a few steps behind him, a bow clutched in his hands, arrow notched and ready. 

He shivers. Shoves aside the powerful sense of  déjà vu . Not exactly helping right now. 

“We’re almost there,” Newt says, face illuminated by the glow of his phone. 

It feels like they’re being watched, but that could be paranoia talking. Does everyone feel eyes following them in the woods after dark? 

He adjusts the knife into a better position, just in case. Resists the urge to check the smaller one tucked into his shoe. 

“How much further?” 

Newt checks the phone, brow furrowing. “Well, according to Google Maps, we’re here.” 

Thomas glances around. The clearing is completely empty. 

“Are you sure Google Maps is right?” 

Newt frowns at him. “Of course I'm bloody not. How am I supposed to know how any of this works?” 

Leaves crunch. Not his shoes this time. 

He turns to see Erica emerging from the trees. For a half a second, he could swear that her eyes flash yellow before shifting back to their natural brown. “Hey, Stiles. Newt.” 

“Hey, Erica.” 

“Still very cloak and dagger,” Newt says, pocketing his phone. His stance is purposefully relaxed, but his hand is resting close to the knife concealed under his jacket. 

Newt’s always had the best aim in the Glade - was the one who first taught Thomas to shoot and throw a spear and knives all those years ago. 

“Yeah,” Erica says with a grimace. “Sorry about that. Derek insisted.” 

Thomas blinks. “Derek?” 

_ “The one behind the tree.”  _

_ What?  _

Newt doesn’t have time to answer. The mysterious Derek chooses that moment to step into the clearing and oh look it’s Creepy Dude from before - complete with severe eyebrows and ridiculous leather jacket. 

“He’s a real drama queen,” Erika says, crossing her arms across her chest. 

Derek glares at her, but she doesn’t seem cowed in the slightest. Probably because her statement is definitely true. There’s another guy with him, too. Tall, lanky, and pale enough to be a ghost, sporting a sour expression and what-do-you-know, a leather jacket. He seems nervous, too, shifting his weight from foot to foot, fingers twitching at his side like he wants to run them through his curly hair. 

Great. 

“Is this some kind of cult?” Thomas blurts. 

“Yeah, where all the members wear leather jackets and skulk around in the woods at night?” Newt asks. 

“They’re funny,” Derek says to Erica, voice flat. 

Erica rolls her eyes. “Just hear him out, okay? It’s not a cult.” 

“ _ She’s not lying.”  _

“Okay,” Thomas says, blowing out a slow breath. “I’m listening.” 

“Erica told me about your amnesia,” Derek says, taking a few steps forward. 

He’s not as tall as he seemed that first night, Thomas realizes. They’re almost the same height. That makes him feel slightly better about his chances if this goes south. He doesn’t know why he’s being so paranoid, but there’s an air of menace lurking underneath the stillness, pushing up through the ground beneath his feet. He felt it often in the Maze - in the misty quiet of Section 3, where monsters far worse than Grievers lurked; in the industrial emptiness of Section 8, with its rusting blades that hinted at a civilization long dead; in the dense grove of Section 2, full of mysterious plants that could kill or heal, but you never knew which until you gambled. 

And now here, everywhere. Choking him. 

“She told me she knew of something that could cure it,” he says, keeping his voice level. 

“She's right,” Derek says. “It comes with a lot of risk, but it could help.” He glances at Newt. “Your leg, too.” 

Newt arches an eyebrow. “Really? What else can this miracle cure do, then?” 

“Make you stronger and faster. More powerful than you can imagine.” 

Well that definitely sounds too good to be true. 

“So what’s the risk?” 

“It could kill you.” 

Somehow, he isn’t surprised, but he still glances at Newt for confirmation. Newt subtly shakes his head. 

_ “He isn’t lying, either.”  _

Another deep breath. “Okay,  _ what  _ is it? A magic potion? A pill?” 

Derek smirks and with a blink his eyes are glowing brilliant, unnatural red.  _ Blood  _ red. “No,” he says and his canines have sharpened to fucking  _ fangs -  _ what the  _ fuck?  _ “A bite.” 

Thomas staggers back a step and feels Newt stiffen behind him. The others’ eyes are glowing, too, but yellow instead of red and what the fuck, what the fuck _ …  _

“What the  _ fuck? _ ” 

_ “Animals inside of humans…”  _ Newt murmurs, sounding shocked. 

Thomas almost wants to laugh, hysterically. You would think that after all the shit that went down in the maze - Grievers and genetic experiments and freaky abilities and kids going insane - nothing would surprise him anymore, but it seems life is still an expert at throwing  _ massive  _ fucking curveballs right at his face. 

“It’s okay,” Erica says. Her eyes have faded back to brown again, but Thomas is still deeply unsettled. “Please, Stiles, this could help you. It helped me.” 

“What are you?” Thomas demands, ignoring her in favor of Derek - who right now presents the much bigger threat. 

“You can’t figure it out?” Derek asks, almost teasing. 

Right. 

“Don’t fuck around with me,” Thomas snaps, drawing the knife from his belt. Erica’s eyes widen and the other kid - so quiet Thomas almost forgot he was there - shifts into a more defensive position. 

Derek, however, doesn’t budge. 

“Werewolves,” he says, infuriatingly calm. 

Something itches at the back of Thomas' mind - wolves and full moons and people who can change their shape - but it’s gone before he grasp it fully. 

“Werewolves,” Thomas repeats, aware of the incredulity creeping into his voice. 

“Well that’s a new one,” Newt mutters, regaining his composure. Sometimes, Thomas thinks that the world could literally start blowing up around them and Newt’s outward calm wouldn’t crack more than an inch. “Why us?” 

“Because he needs a pack,” a new, familiar voice says. 

Scott - stepping out from behind a tree. His eyes are glowing yellow, too, and Thomas doesn’t know why, but a deep sense of betrayal twists in his chest. 

“Scott,” Derek says, cheerful. “Nice of you to join us.” 

Scott ignores him. “Whatever he’s telling you, don’t listen. He doesn’t care about you, just adding to his own power.” 

“Not  _ my  _ power,” Derek snaps, bordering on defensive. “I’ve told you before, Scott, this is about more than me.” 

_ Newt, a little help here…  _

_ “Sorry, Tommy, lots of conflicting emotions right now. But they both believe they’re right.”  _

_ Great.  _

“No it isn’t!” Scott snarls back. “Were you going to tell them about the hunters? About the full moon?  _ All of it? _ ” 

“Yes!” Derek insists, eyes flashing back to red again. There are also now  _ claws  _ starting to sprout in the place of his fingernails, which is an awesome development. 

“You’re putting them all in danger! Erica and Isaac, too!” 

“I gave them a choice. They  _ chose  _ this, Scott.” 

They’re almost nose to nose now, glaring, and Thomas has had enough. Erica and the kid who must be Isaac are hovering, looking unsure of what to do or if they should intervene. Newt has a hand resting inside his coat, no doubt curled around the hilt of his knife, and his eyes are darting back and forth between Derek and Scott, assessing. 

Thomas doesn’t know what Scott meant by hunters or full moons, but he doesn’t care. He was a pawn for five years, moved across a giant board at the whims of someone else, and it’s  _ never  _ going to happen again. 

“Stop!” He yells, just as Scott looks ready to rear a hand back and claw Derek across the face. 

To his surprise, they actually listen, taking a step apart. 

Scott’s features shift back to fully human, gaze pleading. “Don’t do this, Stiles. Either of you. It’s too dangerous.” 

Ha. 

“It’s their choice, Scott,” Derek insists. Focuses his own gaze back on them. “It’s  _ your  _ choice.” 

“Really?” Thomas asks, dubious, because rarely are things this clean cut. Nothing is without consequence, even mercy. “If we said no, you’d let us walk away?” 

Derek hesitates, and it’s enough. Thomas hurls the knife. 

It catches Derek off guard, slamming into his shoulder. He staggers back a step and roars, low and furious. Thomas uses that split second opening to spin around and sprint full tilt for the trees, Newt a few steps behind him. He can distantly hear Scott and Erica shouting after him, but doesn’t slow down. 

He’s also not really paying attention to where he’s going, adrenaline pushing him faster and faster, but if Google Maps got them all the way out here, it can probably get them home from wherever they end up. 

He crosses a shallow stream and slides down a steep hill, clambering over a few fallen trees as he goes. Here the woods are denser, darker, and the ground wet from recent rain. He should stop, a part of him knows they’ve lost the others and Newt can’t run forever at this pace, but the rest of him is still panicking - caught up in red and yellow eyes, claws, and fangs. 

The decision is made for him, though, when he bursts from the trees and finds himself on the edge of a very steep ravine. He skids to a halt, gasping, and reaches out to snag Newt, too, dragging him away from the precipice. 

“Holy shit,” Newt breathes, which is a great summary for this whole night so far. 

“No kidding,” he wheezes, dropping to the ground. 

His hands are shaking again, violently, and he can feel the power thrumming through his veins, demanding release - enough to shift the dirt beneath him. He tamps down on it as hard as he can, reaching out to fist a hand in the front of Newt’s jacket as an anchor. Newt shifts closer, taking his hand and twining their fingers together, not even wincing when Thomas instinctively grips hard enough to squeeze bone. 

“Easy, Tommy, breathe…” 

“How are you not freaking out right now?” Thomas gasps, pressing his forehead against Newt’s shoulder. 

“I am,” Newt says, the strain creeping into his voice now. “A lot. But you can do more property damage.” 

Thomas laughs at that and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ground himself. Focuses on the solid earth beneath him and Newt’s hand in his own and the beat of Newt’s heart near his ear. 

“Werewolves,” he says when he feels somewhat in control again. “Wasn’t expecting that.” 

“Me neither,” Newt grumbles, curling the fingers of his free hand in the back of Thomas’ jacket. 

Thomas takes another deep breath and sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s not really sure what to do with this information - feels like he’s back in the facility in Arizona, getting his whole world turned upside down. Everything has shifted again, on a new fulcrum he never saw coming. 

How are they supposed to handle this? Werewolves and hunters and what looks like a looming  _ war?  _

“Like we handled the maze,” Newt says, with that quiet confidence of his. “One bloody day at a time.” 

He’s right, as always. “Okay. So today, right now, what do we do? Do you think Derek’s going to come after us?” 

“I-” Newt cuts off abruptly, gaze darting to the trees behind them. 

Thomas is on his feet a second later, second knife unsheathed. 

It’s Scott who approaches them, hands up in surrender and all signs of a werewolf gone. Thomas still feels a surge of anger and fear that he hates. 

_ “Careful, Tommy.”  _

“Stiles…” Scott says. Cautious - like he’s talking to a cornered animal. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Thomas demands.

“I didn’t want you involved,” Scott says, still walking forward, eyeing the knife clutched tight in Thomas’ right hand. 

“And that really worked out, didn’t it,” Thomas snaps. 

“I know - I should have told you. I didn’t think Derek would go after you.” 

“He’s not going to leave us alone, is he?” Newt asks. 

Scott grimaces. “Probably not.” 

“So what  _ exactly  _ did you not want us involved in?” Thomas presses. 

“I…” Scott hesitates, like he’s trying to figure out how much he wants to tell them.

Something in Thomas snaps.  _ Fuck  _ that. 

He surges forward, shoving Scott back until he slams into a tree and pins him there - knife to Scott’s throat. “ _ Tell me!”  _

He can feel the air around him crackling,  _ alive,  _ and the rumble of the earth echoing in his chest. Power: pure and raw and deep as an ocean inside of him, coursing violent through his nerves and veins and the marrow of his bones. Scott is staring at him in shock - no, not at him, at something over his shoulder. 

“Tommy,” Newt says, barely more than a whisper. 

Heart pounding, Thomas glances to the side and sees what Scott is fixated on. 

All around them leaves are floating, snatched from the ground and suspended midair by an invisible hand.  _ Hundreds  _ of them, maybe even thousands, rotating slowly, as though they’re trapped underwater.

In the silver moonlight, they almost look like a field of stars. 

“Okay,” Scott says, voice wavering. “I think there’re some things you haven’t told me, either, because I can’t do  _ that. _ ” 

Shit. 

Thomas releases Scott, taking a step back. Leaves brush his cheeks and and arms. Now that he’s flung them up into the air, he’s not sure how to let go of them. The power is still there, roaring. It wants to crumble mountains and crack trees and rent earth and he can’t - it’s too much for his skin, the mortal, pathetic smallness of his body, he  _ can’t-  _

“ _ Calm,” _ Newt says and a hand cups the back of his neck. “ _ Breathe, Tommy.”  _

He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep lungful of sharp winter air. Feels along the bond for the soothing warmth of Newt’s presence. He’s always pictured Newt as a river - deep and still, but powerful, flowing steady towards a unknown sea. Thomas plunges his hands in and lets the water wash over him, break apart some of the power’s fury. Overhead, he can almost picture sunlight glinting through the trees of the Glade. It’s sick, perhaps, that he still finds the idea of the Glade comforting, but it’s the only home he can remember. 

When he opens his eyes again, he feels steadier. Fully himself. 

And all the leaves are raining back down to Earth. 

Scott catches one in his hands, turning it over with fascination. 

“I think we should talk,” he says, serious. 

Thomas glances at Newt, who nods. “Yeah,” he says. “We should.” 

_ _ 

 

“Wait, let me get this straight.” It’s been almost an hour and they’re still sitting on the ridge at the edge of the woods - Beacon Hills an array of lights scattered in the valley below. Thomas stands from the circle they’ve formed so he can pace out his lingering, restless energy.

“You found a body in the woods and you went looking for it. By yourself. And got attacked by a wolf. Who was actually a werewolf, who was actually Derek’s uncle. And when he bit you,  _ you  _ turned into a werewolf.” 

“Yeah,” Scott says. He’s not the most succinct storyteller, frequently getting lost down rabbit trails or doubling back to add in a detail he’d forgotten, but he’s trying. 

Thomas also suspects this is the first time he’s sat down and tried to explain the whole thing to anyone. 

“Why did you go looking for a body?” 

Scott's jaw clenches. “I thought it might be you.” 

And  _ that  _ hits like a fist to the face. “Oh.” 

“After they called off the official searches, I found a police scanner and started listening in once in awhile,” Scott elaborates, picking nervously at the hem of his sweatshirt. “I didn’t want to give up on you yet.” 

“Oh,” Thomas repeats, for lack of anything better to say. 

Newt, mercifully, comes to the rescue. “So Peter started killing people. Hunters.” 

“As revenge for murdering his family, yeah.” 

“But Derek killed him. And Peter was an alpha so now  _ Derek _ is the alpha?” 

Scott nods. “But the hunters want revenge. So they’ve come to Beacon Hills to get it. And Derek thinks he can stop them by building a pack.” 

“That sounds like a stupid idea,” Thomas says. 

“It is! He’s only going to get himself killed.” 

Newt tilts his head to the side, eyeing Scott. “There’s more.” 

Scott sighs and stands up, too. “Yeah. There’s something else. It’s not a werewolf. We don’t know  _ what  _ it is. It’s got scales and a tail.” 

“Oh, great.” He isn’t surprised that werewolves aren’t the only supernatural creatures running around wreaking havoc, but it still isn’t a fun revelation. “Let me guess, that thing’s killing people, too.” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, kicking a stone over the edge of the ridge. “Four so far.” 

“Brilliant,” Newt says. 

Scott sighs again and shakes his head. “Look, I didn’t want you involved in any of this. I know you guys are dealing with a lot right now….” 

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Thomas says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“But I could really use some help,” Scott finishes. “Between the hunters and Derek and whatever this other creature is, me and Allison are in way over our heads.” 

_ What do you think?  _

Newt rubs his jaw. “ _ I think we’re already in it now, whether we want to be or not. Considering what Scott said about Derek needing a pack. Might as well do it on our terms.”  _

“First, though,” Scott says, interrupting their mental conversation. “I want to know what happened earlier. With the leaves.” 

Right. So much for Scott magically forgetting about that. 

_ “Do you want me to tell him?”  _

_ No, I got this.  _

“How much do you know about what happened to us?” He hasn’t actually read any of those news articles, so he has no idea how many details might have been made public. 

“Not much,” Scott says. “Just that you were rescued from a facility out in the desert and no other information was being released, to protect everyone.” 

“It was a maze,” Thomas says and then realizes that Scott probably doesn’t need the finer details of how everything worked and skips ahead. “Before we were put in it, we were … experimented on. We think. They took our memories, then, too. And they gave us these … abilities. Or some of us. Some of the kids didn’t have one and some of them couldn’t … whatever was done didn’t take.” 

“What happened to them?” 

Newt has picked up a stick and is drawing random patterns with it in the dirt, no doubt needing something to do with his hands. “They went mad.” 

“And became violent. We … we had to stop them before they hurt or killed anyone.” 

Scott frowns. “By killing them.” 

Thomas can’t look at him. “Yes.” 

Scott pauses to absorb this. When Thomas dares a glance, something like grief is passing over his face, but Thomas doesn’t know if that’s for the kids who died or for him and Newt who survived. “But your … ability stuck.” 

“Yeah.” 

He turns to Newt. “Yours, too?” 

Newt nods. 

Scott absorbs this, as well. He seems to be taking everything in remarkable stride, but maybe dealing with the supernatural on a daily basis creates a high threshold for batshit insanity. “And what  _ can  _ you guys do?” 

“I can move leaves,” Thomas says, a weak stab at humor. 

Scott frowns at him, unimpressed. 

“And other stuff,” he elaborates. 

“So like … telekinesis?” 

He’s never looked up a term for his ability - didn’t even know one might exist - but he nods. “Sure.” 

“I can read minds,” Newt says. Scott blanches, eyes blowing wide. 

“Like actual thoughts?” 

“No. Just … general impressions. If you’re nervous, for example, and what you might be nervous about, but not what you’re  _ actually  _ thinking.” 

Scott relaxes a fraction, actually starting to look excited, which is again not the reaction Thomas was expecting. “Wow. Like Professor X.” 

Newt tenses. “Someone else can do this?” 

“Oh, no. He’s a character in a comic book,” Scott says, sheepish, and Newt’s shoulders slump - in relief or disappointment Thomas can’t tell. 

“It’s kind of cool, though,” Scott glances back and forth between the two of them. “You’re pretty much superheroes.” 

That term he looked up - tired of bats and giant Ss on t-shirts. Newt, who was with him for the Google search, scoffs. “Hardly. They’re difficult to control and they have side effects.” 

“What kind of side effects?” 

“Bad ones,” Thomas says, unwilling to expose any more weakness to Scott. At least until they’re completely certain they can trust him. 

Scott takes the hint and backs down. “Do you know why … whoever captured you … gave them to you?” 

“Ava Paige,” Thomas says. “Renowned geneticist.” (Sue him, he looked her up, too.) 

“And no, we don’t,” Newt says.

Scott nods. Then, hesitant, “will you tell me more … about the maze? I want to understand.” 

Thomas’ chest is aching again. “Maybe.” It would be strange, someone outside knowing the whole of it, but maybe not a bad thing. Especially if it’s a friend who cared enough about Stiles to still listen to police scanners and traipse through woods in search of a body five years after he disappeared. “Not tonight, though.” 

He’s exhausted and he can feel a massive headache coming on from using his powers. The side effects hit all of them differently, and for him it’s always been migraines, dizziness, and fiery pain in his joints. 

“Right,” Scott says. “Of course. And I’m sorry. I should have told you. Going forward, I’ll try not to keep secrets.” A startled look crosses his face. “Oh! I forgot, a lot of the hunters - they’re Allison’s family.” 

Fucking hell. 

“Your girlfriend comes from a family of hunters and you  _ forgot?”  _ Thomas doesn’t bother to keep the incredulity out of his voice. 

Scott shrugs. “To be honest, it’s kind of fallen down on the list of priorities right now.” 

“Do they know about you?” 

“Yeah, they don’t want me and Allison seeing each other.” 

Which is clearly an order that’s been enthusiastically defied, and that sounds like another recipe for disaster, but Thomas figures it’s none of his business. 

“So what’s at the  _ top  _ of your list of priorities?” Newt asks. 

Scott’s expression hardens. “Finding out what that other creature is.” 

“And do you have a plan?”

And Scott’s expression falls. “No.” 

Newt, with the patience of someone who has literal years of experience dealing with reckless, harebrained schemes (mostly from Thomas, he'll admit), nods. “Brilliant.” 

“We’re working on it,” Scott insists. 

“And what do you need our help with, exactly?” Thomas asks. 

Scott rubs the back of his neck. “We … we’re worried it might be Lydia.” 

“ _ Lydia? _ ” He tries to imagine Lydia Martin shapeshifting into a lizard and violently murdering people, but the image won’t compute. 

“She isn’t aware of it, if she is. But she’s been … well you saw what happened at the ice rink. And before that she was lost in the woods for  _ days  _ and doesn’t remember.” 

“I thought that was from trauma?” Newt asks. 

“It might be,” Scott concedes. “But she was attacked by Peter, the Alpha. And she didn’t turn.” 

“You think she might have turned into this instead?” Thomas asks. It’s a horrifying thought, not being aware of a monster living inside of you, taking control of you. He’d face the dangers and mysteries of his own abilities any day. 

Scott nods, grim. “We’re not sure, though. And with your powers…” He looks at Newt. “Could you tell?” 

Newt’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I could tell that you were a werewolf,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t know what it was I was sensing. So … maybe?” 

“Newt…” Thomas says around the sudden lump of fear in his throat.  _ Don’t push yourself. _

_ “I won’t,”  _ Newt fires back immediately, which isn’t very reassuring. 

“It’ll be fine, Tommy,” Newt says out loud. He glances up at Scott. “You should know, though. You, Derek, Erica - I sensed it right away. I haven’t gotten anything from Lydia.” 

“Could it be because she’s not aware of it?” 

Newt shrugs. “Maybe.” 

Scott nods again, absently. “Okay.” 

“I’ll try again,” Newt offers. 

“Thank you.” He kicks another stone. “You’re not going to join Derek’s pack, are you?” 

Thomas scoffs. “Hell no. We’re free and independent agents.” 

“Even if the bite could cure your amnesia?” 

That part is almost tempting, but it’s not a guarantee and Thomas isn’t about to risk his life for a long shot gamble. Not anymore. Not if he doesn’t have to. Besides, there’s a clear hierarchy in the pack, and Thomas isn’t interested in being someone else’s subordinate. Especially a brooding grouch in a stupid leather jacket. 

“Even then.” 

“He’s not going to give up easily,” Scott warns them again. “I’ll do what I can, but I don’t know how much interference I can run.” 

“It’s fine,” Thomas says. “I think we can handle Derek Hale.” 

“Yeah,” Scott says with a glance down to Thomas’ shoe, now once again housing a knife. “I think you can.” 

“Keep us in the loop, though,” Newt says. “If anything develops.” 

“Sure. And thank you, for accepting all this.” 

Thomas shrugs. “Don’t have much a choice, do we?” 

Scott smiles, but it’s tinged with sad understanding. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Thomas says.

He’s nervous, yes, about the idea of werewolves and God knows what else, but it’s a challenge. And if men can transform into wolves and lizards, then maybe his and Newt’s abilities aren’t so far out in left field. Maybe, there actually  _ are  _ answers out there, separate from Ava Paige’s lost research. Maybe this is a stepping stone to finding some of them. 

“I’m sorry it happened like this, then.” Scott amends. 

“Okay, that you can be sorry about,” Thomas agrees. 

“But you’re forgiven,” Newt says, which is true. 

Trust will take a little longer to come. 

“Thank you,” Scott says again. “Want me to walk you guys home? I would offer to drive, but my mom has the car tonight.” 

“Scott,” Thomas says, around a swell of affection, “we’re not five.” 

Scott grins. “Right, right. Got it. See you at school tomorrow, then?” 

“Yeah.” 

Scott squeezes both of their shoulders and then he’s gone as quickly as he came. Thomas sinks back to the ground next to Newt and rubs his temple. The migraine is picking up strength. 

“Werewolves,” Newt says, looking out at Beacon Hills far below them. 

“And other things.” 

“We’ve really stepped in it now, haven’t we, Tommy?” 

“Are you surprised?” Thomas asks, wry. “Weird shit seems to follow us everywhere.” 

“True,” Newt agrees. “Want to head back?” 

Thomas thinks about the long trek home through the darkened woods, sneaking back into the house without waking John, and shakes his head. He’s going to need to lie down, eventually, but for now he wants to enjoy the fresh air and the view and not think about anything at all. 

“Excellent plan, Tommy,” Newt says, shifting so that their shoulders press together, anchoring. 

Thomas closes his eyes. And breathes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me on tumblr at [wobblyspelling](http://www.wobblyspelling.tumblr.com).


End file.
